The Accord
by tetedemort
Summary: Jack's an unwilling hero, Norrington's Beckett’s unwilling slave, Edmund's a willing murderer. When the three are thrown together, they discover a conspiracy that threatens to kill them all. Can they work together or will past grudges get in the way? R&R!
1. Chapter One

**Disclaimer**: I don't own anything from _Pirates of the Caribbean_, and I don't claim to.

This story takes place some time after the events of _Dead Man's Chest_, although Jack was never eaten by the Kraken. And for those of you wondering: no, not all the chapters will focus on Norrington! Fear not, for Captain Jack will play a major part in the story, if you'll just get past the first chapter.

* * *

**Note as of 1/6/08**: It's always disconcerting to look at your hits and see that less than half of the people who read the first chapter go on to read the second, so I'm putting this up here in hopes to perhaps interest more of you that would click out of this window otherwise: There's tons of Norrington, tons of him doubting himself and tons of him feeling confident in his new position. There's tons of Jack, being just who he's best at being: Captain Jack Sparrow. And then there's tons of a mysterious (well, he likes to think so) boy named Edmund who overestimates his abilities and gets in a bit over his head. It's a story about doubt and trust and guilt and hate and certainly a story about lies. Oh yes, lots of lies. If you enjoy intrigue and ulterior motives and half-truths, you will enjoy this plot as soon as it gets going.  
So give _Accord_ a chance, even if you just skim through a few chapters until something catches your interest. Thanks! Enjoy, I hope! (:

**Chapter One**

_Somewhere in the Caribbean, 1724_

His promotion was not at all what he had imagined it would be.

The HMS _Albatross_ rolled dangerously to the side as another poorly coordinated broadside from the pirate ship just a few meters away slammed into the thick wood of the hull. Splintered wood flew wildly into the air, mixing with the already thick, dark smoke from the cannons and a fire or two that had started belowdecks.

James Norrington flinched and dropped to the deck just as a cannonball flew careening over the railing. A momentary silence while both sides reloaded their cannons; James glanced up, hand covering the back of his neck, and searched through the debris.

A dark blue coat, covered in splinters and powder, lay crumpled beneath a tent of wood. James pulled himself across the deck with his elbows, staying low to the wood. He turned the man's face – just as he feared.

"Sir?" The man barely stirred, the only indication that he was still alive being a small twitch between his eyebrows. Some marines had stopped firing to look on. James shook the man, propped him up and held his lolling head. "Sir, wake up."

Vice-Admiral Ingram jerked suddenly, and his body stiffened. His hands clutched at his stomach, where a growing red stain stuck his crisp white shirt to his body. "Norrington," he gasped. His eyes snapped open, watery and glazed with pain. "The papers– Get me my papers."

James glanced over at the pirate ship in time to see the blur of a chain shot pound into the mizzenmast just above them. The mast loomed terribly for only a second before it fell forward with frightening slowness, the dirty sails ballooning upwards and straining at their ropes. He pulled his commander from beneath the mast's path just in time and shielded him from the flying shards of wood. An unpleasantly large chunk thrust directly in his lower back.

Ingram's hand gripped the lapel of his coat. "The papers–!"

James squeezed out from beneath the mast, checking to make sure that the vice-admiral was reasonably safe, and ran back across the deck, ducking into the Captain's quarters just as the _Albatross_ fired another broadside. He staggered against the doorframe and surveyed the room. The cannons had fulfilled their job: the room was in complete disarray, with the large slanting windows shattered and the desk badly smashed up.

But he knew exactly where to look.

The papers – a letter of commission, started months ago, waiting only for Ingram's signature – were in a drawer, scattered on the floor. He gathered what he could: the parchment, a quill, an ink well, a candle. The candle would prove to be the biggest problem; keeping it lit while dashing madly across the deck would be a challenge.

By whatever luck had found them the only pirate ship in the Caribbean stupid enough to fight back and strong enough to badly cripple the ship, he made it back to the vice-admiral safely. A lieutenant knelt beside the man, pillowing his head on his lap. The boy looked up as James maneuvered back into the small space. "What are you doing?" he asked, sounding scandalized. His eyes lingered angrily on the papers James held in his arms.

James ignored him, setting down the candle and arranging everything as best he could. He bent over Ingram again, gently patting his cheek. The man was shivering, even though his face ran with sweat. He opened his eyes and squinted up at James. "Here, sir." He handed him the already-dipped quill and placed his hand along the back of the parchment where he would have to sign.

To be sure, this was never how he imagined being promoted to Vice-Admiral. In his fantasies, it would have come during peacetime, while he was resting in Port Royal after a long hard struggle, after Vice-Admiral Ingram died peacefully of some disease. He felt as though he were committing a crime, asking for a dying man to give up his position and hand it off to him.

Ingram grasped the quill with an effort and squinted with some confusion at the paper. "Ah," he said, more a quiet sigh than a sound of understanding. He placed the tip on the line beneath the King'ssignature. A sudden shudder of the ship and a violent rock to one side, and the quill tip shot down to the bottom edge of the page. The rest of his signature measured the resulting vibrations of the ship more than spelled out his actual name.

James melted the stick of sealing wax, dripped a good size bead onto the paper next to Ingram's signature. "Your hand, sir." Ingram weakly shifted his hand closer to him; James grasped it and pressed his ring into the quickly hardening wax.

When it was done, Ingram didn't let go of his hand. Painfully, his lips drew out into a smile. He whispered, "You'll make a fine Admiral one day, James."

A cannon brought down a yard; James dove over Ingram.

A light breeze from the north cleared away some of the smoke. He opened his eyes when the sounds of exploding cannons and splintering wood quieted.

Ingram's face was frozen into a light frown, an expression he had come to be familiar with after serving beneath the man on his ship for nearly a year now. His eyes no longer twitched beneath the thin skin of his eyelids. James felt for his pulse and found none.

He sat back slowly, arranging Ingram's hands across his chest, trying to loosen the grip his fist had on his wound. His body was already cooling and stiffening; probably he had been injured in the first part of the battle, and only now his adrenaline left him to die.

The soldier, who had never left his commander's side, said, "What– What do we do now, sir?"

James stared at the wax seal and the unrecognizable signature for a moment. Then he folded it with a decisive swiftness. "What are you all standing about for?" he shouted, addressing the small crowd of marines and soldiers that had gathered around their fallen vice-admiral. "Man your cannons! Fire at will!"

Amidst the once again busy crew, James sprinted over to the captain's quarters. He stepped over the scattered furniture and papers. Searching frantically, he found Ingram's flintlock musket just as the cannon volley from the HMS _Albatross_ was fired. He braced himself against the stairs that led up to the helm, placed the butt of the rifle to his shoulder, and aimed.

A man stood full height behind the line of pirates at their cannons on the deck, pacing back and forth and shouting orders that were almost completely drowned out by the excited shouting of both crews.

Waiting for a roll of the ship, James's finger tightened on the trigger and–

The man fell out of sight, clutching his face. Confusion and disorder took over the crew of the other ship.

James shouted to his men "Board!" and, like they had practiced so many times before, they jumped across the narrow gap and onto the deck of the pirate ship.

Not even twenty minutes later, the smoke from the cannons had cleared and a bright late afternoon sun shone down onto the shattered deck. The dead lay sprawled out as they had fallen. What remained of the pirate crew was tied up and sitting in a row, not one meeting any of their captors' eyes.

James held the rifle loosely in one hand as he walked slowly over to the man he shot. With the tip of his boot, he lightly nudged the man over. His bullet had caught him right in the center of his forehead. The man was young, by land standards, but far older than he expected for a pirate captain.

A lieutenant stood by his shoulder. "Sir? What are your orders?"

James drew his eyes away from the dead man at his feet to look back at the_Albatross_. She was badly crippled, with at least one hole near the water line, maybe others beneath it. But she would make it back; they could make temporary repairs that would see them back to Port Royal. His eyes rested for a long, silent moment on the pile of rubble where he knew Ingram lay.

He drew his eyes away from his ship, focused on the lieutenant's question. "Lock the live ones in the brig. They will answer to their crimes in the hangman's noose. Leave the dead behind. Destroy the ship."

The lieutenant saluted him. "Sir."

It would be a shame wasting such a quick ship – the Royal Navy, after all, being in sore need of vessels of shallow draft that would be able to chase after the pirates where their men-of-war couldn't follow. But the damage done was irreparable; he was pleased to note that this crew, made up mostly of greenhorns, had managed to cause more damage than they received. He would be sure once they arrived safely in port that these men got the recognition they deserved.

James walked across the deck to the plank laid between the two ships, resting on the railings. He passed by the line of prisoners. A few of them were crying, but most were too shocked to do much else than to stare at the warped wood beneath their knees and at the blank eyes of their fallen shipmates – this was probably the first real battle for many of them, since pirates generally preyed upon ships too weak to fight back. They were cowards, all of them.

Back on the _Albatross_, James returned to Ingram's side. His face was pale now, all the redness of his nose and cheeks drained away to a pure marble white. James pulled off his coat and folded it, then carefully lifted up Ingram's head and slid his coat beneath him. The dangers of his new responsibility weighed heavily on James's shoulder. That could be _me_ someday, James thought, staring down at his commander's stiff face. That _will_ be me someday.

Vice-Admiral Ingram's body would be committed forever to the sea the very next day, while the fog still hovered low over the water and created a separate world of white and grey. James himself stitched the last stitch though the canvas, through the cartilage of Ingram's nose. His was the last body they gave to the sea that day. James stood tall and silent while the chaplain delivered his sermon beside the railing and the canvas-wrapped corpse. In the distance, though the fog, he could see floating barrels and canvas, and the lazy jut of a broken mast.

---

Admiral Wallis stood bent over the detailed, table-sized map of the Caribbean, his back to the large windows that opened on the bay behind him. His hat rested next to his splayed hand, and his coat hung draped over the back of his chair. The only indication he gave that he noticed James was a quick glance up beneath his lowered eyebrows at the click of the door.

James stood nervously just inside the doorway, holding in his hands the belongings of the deceased vice-admiral. Shifting the package to one arm, he removed his hat and held it loosely at his side. Even from across the room, James could see the small white shocks of sails on the miniature warships placed here and there throughout the Caribbean.

He took the awkward moments of silence to smooth down his wig as much as possible and to wipe his face free of as much grime as he could. He had come directly from the _Albatross_, with no time between to clean up.

Finally, the Admiral sighed. "Sit down, Norrington," he said, collapsing into his chair. He rested his face in his palms, elbows on the table.

Another moment of uncomfortable silence. James ventured a quiet, polite "Sir?"

Rubbing his eyes with his hands, Wallis sat back in his chair. He had the air of a constantly sought-out military man, who worked for days without a moment's peace. "I heard about your encounter at sea." He added hesitantly, "And about Ingram."

James wordlessly slid the small cloth-wrapped package across the table and placed his sealed commission behind it.

Wallis stared at the package a long time, before he finally looked up at James. His eyes were rimmed with the red and dark purple of sleepless nights. He seemed to James to be thinner than before, and his usual gregarious nature was unnervingly subdued. "He appointed you to fulfill his position?"

James immediately tensed. "Yes, sir." He watched the admiral mull over this with a dread growing in him; too many times he had been slighted because some captain's son wanted a chance to be just like daddy; because some lender's boy decided that he didn't want to follow in his father's footsteps, and his father held a captain's funds in his hands. It was unfair – and quite often, more than a little disastrous – but James knew politics well enough that he knew there was no way to fight it other than to wait patiently.

"Would you like a drink, James?" He walked over to a table in the back with glass bottles lining the wall beneath a wide landscape.

James was shocked into momentary silence by the sudden familiarity with which the admiral addressed him and at the ease with which he moved about the room, only in dress shirt and breeches. Admiral Wallis glanced over his shoulder.

"A drink?" Wallis repeated.

"Oh, no. No, thank you." Now was no time to get nervous and drink himself into a stupor.

Wallis shrugged and poured himself a glassful, then tossed it down in one gulp. He filled up another glassful. "I am in a rather hard spot, James," he said, finishing the second. "You see, three – three! – of my ships have been completely destroyed by pirates in the past month alone. Three of my best ships, all at once." He crossed the room, glass in one hand, half-full bottle in the other, and sat back down across from James. "And with those ships, I've lost not only countless sailors that will take months and money to replace with new men of equal experience, but I've also lost two rear-admirals and a vice-admiral."

"I was not aware of that, sir." James forced his eyes away from the package on the desk in front of him.

"Yes." Wallis regarded him shrewdly over the top of his glass. He set it down, empty. "James, I would like to be perfectly blunt with you. If I had the luxury of commanding a peacetime Navy, you would not be promoted. You have yet to prove to me that you are truly a supporter of the Crown. And then there's the matter of the pirate Sparrow that you allowed to escape." Here, James looked down at the hat that rested on his knee.

"But," he added, "it's because of your disquieting sympathy toward pirates–"

James tried to protest, but Wallis spoke over him.

"–that I am upholding your promotion. I have a mission for you, Norrington."

"A mission, sir?" James asked, feeling slightly faint.

"You may remember that after you let Sparrow escape, you were listed as a traitor to the Crown. You were saved only by the good words and confidence of a certain Lord Beckett; he assured us that he would make sure that you reformed your actions. But, however much weight his words may hold, they will never speak of your true intentions. And with this, Lord Beckett agrees." Wallis rested his clasped hands before him on the table. "You will have to prove your loyalty to the King."

A cold chill ran through James, starting in the very center of his chest and then traveling slowly up to his throat and out to his fingers. "_Prove_ myself, sir?"

Wallis stared back at him through heavy-lidded eyes. "We must be sure that you have Britain's best interest at heart. That instance with Sparrow has brought doubt into our minds as to your commitment to the good of all."

James set his face carefully.

"This recent wave of pirate activity in the Caribbean, especially around English settlements, has been most disconcerting. If you are truly committed to serving the Crown and the King, you will do your part to destroy these threats to the peace."

"I understand."

"Repair the damage done to the HMS _Albatross_," Wallis said. "Hire more sailors, replenish your weapons. You are to make sail as soon as possible, to patrol the waters around the most important Jamaican ports. Destroy any pirates you run across."

"Yes, sir."

"Your official orders will arrive in a few days. You may leave, Norrington." He turned back to the map in front of him.

James stood and saluted.

**Author's Note**: I always look to improve my writing, so constructive criticism or encouragement is greatly appreciated. And if any of you notice any errors on my part, especially historical errors, let me know.


	2. Chapter Two

**Disclaimer**: I don't own anything from _Pirates of the Caribbean_, and I don't claim to.

**Chapter Two**  
_Off the coast of Jamaica_

James slouched in his chair, holding his orders up to the light that filtered in through the windows. It was an unusually cloudy and cold morning for the Caribbean, and even though it was well past noon, they remained anchored in an unnatural fog. His cabin was dark, and he had pushed his chair over to the window in a weak attempt to get some work done, even while his nerves were prickling.

They had been at sea already for a week, and there was not a pirate ship in sight. The crew was starting to get superstitious.

The fine penmanship of the letter blended together again, and James lost his place for the fifth time. He tossed the letter back over to his desk in disgust and gave up trying to get anything done while all he could think about was returning to Port Royal with no pirates to speak of. He would lose his commission, just as he almost had when he let Sparrow escape. He was in no position to fail.

Looking out his window, he could just barely make out the outline of the low mountain of the small island they were moored near. He had long since given up trying to figure out exactly where they were. With the fog lasting for more than a day, always covering and blurring the position of the sun, the navigator had been unable to sight the height of the sun with his sextant at noon. And until they could find at least their approximate situation, it was dangerous to try to sail – who knew how shallow the reefs were?

The muffled sound of four bells being struck brought him back to the reality of his situation. James stood and stretched, slouching just enough to accommodate the low ceilings. He pulled his coat on and fastened the buttons up to his throat. Grabbing his hat, he walked out onto the deck.

The air was damp and cool, and James pulled his collar tighter around the back of his neck, unaccustomed to such cool weather in the Caribbean. It brought back memories of home in England, except that it wasn't raining.

He mounted the steps to the quarter deck, where one of the sailors was standing listlessly in front of the still wheel. From this new vantage point, he looked down upon the waist of the ship. Sailors stood or sat about, looking as useless as they likely felt. None of them spoke, except for the occasional whispered word. They were all waiting.

The captain emerged from his cabin below the helm. Upon seeing James, he saluted. James nodded in return. Quickly, he mounted the stairs. "Sir?"

James turned to him, hands gripping the railing.

"I was wondering if I could speak with you, sir. About the– situation."

"Yes, of course."

In his cabin, James motioned to the chair on the other side of his desk and pulled over his own from next to the window. Captain Earlson sat uncomfortably in his seat, back straight and formal. He began uncertainly. "It has been an honor–"

James held up a hand. "No stilted formality, Captain. Speak plainly."

Earlson looked down to rethink his words. He began again quickly, clearly unnerved by silence. "This has been awfully hard on the men. We can't stay inactive like this without discontent growing. The bosun has indicated that he has heard talk–"

There was a loud shout from outside, followed by a chorus of calls – a struggle. The two men stood quickly and raced to the door. The captain's warning had come too late. A group of men crowded the port side of the ship, with one man in the center, pushed against the railing and trying to get free. They were all grabbing for something.

Captain Earlson ran toward the group, shouting. He had to physically pull some of the men out of the fray before they gradually fell to order. As more and more men cleared aside, it became obvious what they were fighting over: a spyglass.

The captain stood in front of the excited group of men. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" He turned to the man in the center of it, who shrank back, clutching the spyglass. "Well?"

The man looked at his feet and touched his forehead in an unconscious gesture of respect and nervousness. "Sir, I–" He faltered, then handed the spyglass to his captain. "Two points off the port bow, sir."

The captain took the spyglass, regarding his crew suspiciously. "What exactly is two points off port?"

"A ship!" someone shouted, and then the deck was filled with such shouts. The fog took their voices, muffled them, reflected them back.

"Silence!" The men immediately grew quiet, but their agitation was clear on all their faces. Earlson stepped up to the railing and held the spyglass to his eye. He searched all along the horizon – what little he could make out of it – and turned back to the men. "There is nothing out there. It's clear that you are all beginning to imagine–" Something stopped him. He raised the spyglass again and stared at a point two points off port. The wind picked up, and some of the fog cleared away, if only for a moment. "Man your stations! Prepare to make sail!"

James raced to the captain's side, who had returned his gaze to the thick wall of fog, eyes widened. "What is it?" James squinted, but the fog made it impossible to see more than twenty feet away.

"A ship with black sails."

"Black sails–?"

But James had no time to think about the captain's words before he heard the unexpectedly sharp report of a cannon from this unseen ship. And then he saw it: the Jolly Roger grinning merrily down at its prey.

James ran down to his cabin as the men began climbing up to the sails and drawing up the anchors. It took only a second before he found his pistol and rifle and shot. He fastened his belt, sword lifting the tail of his coat and pistol making an awkward lump on his hip. He carried his rifle by his side and lurched toward the door just as the _Albatross_ jumped forward with the wind in her sails and made an awkward turn.

For a moment, as he braced himself against the doorframe until the ship righted herself, his mind focused on the memory of Ingram lying dead and bloodied beneath wooden splinters and canvas and other corpses. Except now when he looked at Ingram, he was looking down into his own face.

The door to his cabin banged open, and a frightened looking sailor stumbled in, narrowly avoiding running into James. He looked around, and finally spotted James standing right behind him. He straightened and saluted. "I was sent by the captain, sir, to make sure that you're safe."

The first deafening explosion of the guns thundered all around them. The boy pulled James to the floor, and they waited for an answering fire.

But no more cannons were fired that day. Instead, they heard the shouts of someone – perhaps their crew, perhaps that of the ship with black sails. There was a struggle, and then–

Silence.

It had been less than ten minutes since the battle first began. The sailor, who had one hand pressing down on James's head, to keep him from looking up hand having his head taken off by an errant cannonball, pushed himself up onto his elbows. "They've stopped," he said fearfully. The two men listened in tense silence for sounds from above that would tell them whether they had made their first capture or whether they were now prisoners.

Someone knocked at the door to James's cabin. Neither of them moved to open it. The knock came again, this time followed by a frightened "Vice-Admiral, sir?"

James stood and pulled the door open.

"The captain asked to see you on deck."

James followed the marine out to the open waist of the ship. There were no men stationed at the cannons. He stepped into the bright light of the quickly clearing day. His eyes first snapped over to the other ship.

The captain rushed over to him, beaming. "They gave in without much of a fight," he said.

Without a word, James crossed over to the _Black Pearl_ and stopped in front of the bowed form of Jack Sparrow. "Well," he said, "it has been too long."

Jack froze, then leaned his head back in an exaggerated attempt to focus on James's face. "Well! This is certainly unexpected; what a surprise!" He grinned up at him, only then separating James's form from the sun-lit fog behind him.

"I should have expected I would find you lurking around these coasts. I guess I assumed that you wouldn't be so stupid as to be found so near to the scene of the crime."

Jack looked confused, squinted his eyes and frowned. "Crime?" He glanced over at his crewmembers sitting closest to him. "We haven't committed any crimes recently, as far as I can remember."

"Captain," one of them said, "remember there was that ship–"

"Entirely not our fault," Jack interrupted quickly.

James stared down at the pirate, unmoved. "Now is no time to play the fool, Sparrow. Denying it will only bring a harsher sentence upon your head."

"First off, I wasn't aware there was a sentence worse than death. Second off, who's playing the fool? What the hell are you talking about, Norrington?"

It was too late. Any attempts now to reign in his temper were lost with Jack's last try for innocence. He turned sharply away, aware that on his first mission as a vice-admiral, it would probably be in bad form to kick his prisoner's face in – that could come later, when his position was guaranteed. "Bring Sparrow to my cabin."

He crossed back over to the _Albatross_, where the captain stepped in front of him. "Sir, what is the meaning of this?"

"I can walk just fine by myself, thank you very much." Jack landed heavily on the _Albatross_'s deck, hands locked behind his back by iron cuffs and followed closely by two marines. He leaned over to Norrington before they could pull him away and said, "I hope this little chat of ours doesn't last long, mate, because I've got some business to attend to."

"I'm sure you do," James said, his voice flat.

Captain Earlson stared after Jack, who had now collapsed to the floor in protest and was making the two marines drag him to the cabin. "Do you know the man?"

"He will have valuable information for us, for the mission." He followed after the marines and left the captain standing on the deck.

Jack lay sprawled on his side in the middle of his cabin, working at the cuffs. When James opened the door, he looked up and stopped. His eyes followed James's wide path around him to the chair behind his desk, where he could only see the top of his head. He made a few feeble attempts at righting himself. "Would you mind terribly helping me to sit up?"

"I should hope that you are able to do that on your own."

"Well, usually I can, but I must say that it's a bit harder when one's hands are cuffed very tightly and painfully behind one's back." He waited hopefully. James didn't move. "_Fine_. I'll just lay here, then."

"Sparrow," James said. He looked over the table at Jack and found that he had to sit forward at an uncomfortable angle to even see his face. "Oh, for goodness' sake." He abruptly pushed the chair back; Jack shrank away from him, trying to worm his way across the floor, away from inevitable pain. But James grabbed one of his bent arms and hauled him up. "Sit." He returned to his side of the desk.

Jack made a show of inspecting the chair before he sat. "You had a reason for bringing me in here, I think? Just couldn't wait to get me alone?" He grinned, slouching to one side.

"Shut your mouth." There was no anger in his voice, just annoyance. He was focused on something else. "You have been sacking ports recently, haven't you, Sparrow?"

"I have not." James didn't look convinced. "Honestly, search my ship all you want. You won't find a single stolen good. Well maybe except for that– one thing. But that's beside the point."

"I won't find anything because you had enough foresight to get rid of your loot before going out to sea again. Yes, I'm well aware of the tactics commonly used by pirates. Confess, Sparrow. I'm in no position to draw this out, and neither are you."

Jack sighed impatiently. "I've _told_ you: I don't know anything about these attacks. I've just come from up north, from the Colonies. I haven't been anywhere near Jamaica for almost a year."

"What were you doing in the Colonies?"

Jack said clearly, "Taking a vacation."

James glared across the table at Jack. "Now is not the time or place to joke around."

"Yes, you've said that." Jack watched him, eyes narrowed shrewdly. "You in a spot of trouble, or something?"

"_No_."

"Really? You seem a bit more– frayed on the edges than usual. More direct.I've known plenty of navy officers in my lifetime, and all of them talk themselves into a loop before they can get anything done."

"Like yourself?"

Jack smiled.

James looked at the papers on his desk, his eyes drawn to his commission that lay between his hands.

… _James Norrington_, he read, _you are hereby charged with the responsibility of finding and eradicating Pirates from the Seas around His Majesty's Settlements in Jamaica and the Caribbean. You will have charge of a Fleet of Seaworthy Ships and are henceforth given permission to use Any Means necessary to fulfill your Mission. …_

He looked up again at Jack. _Any means necessary._ "You say you had no role in these recent attacks."

"That's right," Jack said, now a little uncertain. "My hands are clean."

James said to himself, "I'm making a horrible, horrible mistake," but even this acknowledgement didn't stop him from taking a step off the cliff. "I have an offer to make, Sparrow."

The slouch went out of Jack's posture. "I'm listening."

If he continued now, he knew that he would never be able to turn back. "I– There have been a series of violent attacks on some port cities in Jamaica. Pirate attacks. And we have yet to find provocation or any of the culpable. The situation is getting desperate–"

Jack grinned, slow and wide, understanding immediately. "Can it be? Can it be that the great Commodore Norrington is asking for my help?"

"Let me put it this way: you will help me stop whatever pirates are responsible for killing these innocents, or else I will turn you in without a second thought, and this time I will make sure that you hang."

"And if our mission is successful?" Jack was at ease now, sensing that he could easily gain the upper hand.

"If _my_ mission is successful," James corrected. "If and when that time comes, we will discuss an appropriate reward." He stood with effort and pulled a key out of his coat. "I trust that you realize that if you killed me now, you would only be killed yourself. All your crew members are locked away, and by the time you could reach them, they would be dead. I'm unlocking you as a sign of goodwill, Sparrow. Don't make me regret it."

The irons fell away, and Jack rubbed his wrists gratefully. "Oh, believe me when I tell you this, James dear: You can count on me."

**Author's Note**: Drop me a line; tell me what you think. Also, if you notice anything historically inaccurate – even if you just _think_ it is – I would greatly appreciate it if you would point it out to me. Similarly, if you want explanations for any aspect of history that I present, just ask.  
Thank you very much for the kind review! Any encouragement or criticism is appreciated; how else will I improve?


	3. Chapter Three

**Disclaimer**: I don't own anything from _Pirates of the Caribbean_, and I don't claim to.

**Note**: After the release of _At World's End_, it's necessary for me to say that this is completely AU.

**Chapter Three**  
_East India Trading Company's Headquarters in the Caribbean, Port Royal_

Edmund stood in front of the wide table, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. His hands clasped behind his back were sweaty, despite the fact that his pulse was calm and even. He brushed a dark curl away from his face and tried to stuff it back into the drooping ribbon tied at the base of his skull, without success.

The man sitting at the table was silent, reading from an untidy bundle of papers held loosely in his soft hand. Edmund had been standing there silently for nearly five minutes, and the white-wigged man's frown had deepened slowly until it was a deep scowl.

Edmund took that as a bad sign.

Finally, with a sigh, he set the papers down and tiredly rubbed at his eyes. "Mr. Seward, is it?" he asked, shifting to sit up straighter in his chair.

"Yes, Lord Beckett, sir."

He regarded Edmund with obvious disinterest. "And you're a midshipman?"

"I was: I passed the Lieutenant's exam last week, sir."

"I see." Beckett pushed some of the top papers aside; Edmund recognized his captain's handwriting on one of the sheets, the bosun's on another. "What is it that you are requesting of me exactly?"

"I would like to sail with your ships on your special mission."

Beckett stared at him, showing no emotion on his face. "You have been at sea a total of six months, is that correct?" He didn't wait for an answer. "And yet you expect me to impose you, a greenhorn, hardly even a lieutenant, on one of my captains? They have their jobs to think of, boy, and you would only be a distraction and liability to them."

Edmund's face set, a remnant of his not-long-past childhood.

Beckett let out a bark of laughter. "I see now. You expected me to agree to send you – a boy I met today for the first time, with only two letters of confidence – you expected me to send you on this mission that, if it fails, could very well be the end of the East India Trading Company?"

"I'm more qualified than–"

"You're a _child_."

Edmund's mouth snapped shut. He glared at Beckett and held his gaze for all of a minute, before that six months' training forced his eyes to the floor.

Beckett was laughing again, a low, malicious chuckle, his eyes squinted into arrogant slivers. "You seem to be very set in your decision, boy. Why might that be? In search of the wealth to be had?" He smiled at this, but it wasn't a friendly smile.

"No, sir," Edmund said quickly, "not at all." He hesitated, raising his eyes just enough to look at Beckett's chin, but no farther.

"Oh?" His silence was inviting.

"I–" He chanced a quick glance to gauge Beckett's mood. "I would like to see the pirates receive their due punishments, too, sir."

Beckett stared at him, silent. There was an amused quirk to his face, but it was cunningly masked by his cool gaze.

Edmund kept his head low and shifted back on the heels of his feet. He had never been one to deal with the stress of rejection and humiliation very well. A tall glass of ale was sounding _very_ appetizing.

The corners of Beckett's mouth twitched and drew out into a thin, hard smile. "You are rather serious about this, aren't you?"

"My mother," he said, stopping his slow retreat to the door, "was raped by pirates. She died when I was young – before I can remember, actually – which is why I joined the Royal Navy."

Beckett tilted his head back in a slow nod of recognition. "Ah." Deliberately, he stood and walked around his desk, leaned against it directly in front of Edmund. "Revenge. Of course. I understand revenge very well." He glanced over to the balcony that opened upon the harbor; Mercer stood just outside the doorway, unseen but always listening. "Ah, yes. I think I might have a job for you."

Edmund's face lit up with a child's joy. He struggled to rein it in, force it into a more dignified expression of polite interest. He failed miserably.

Beckett watched this telling play of emotion across the boy's face with interest. "Yes, I believe I do," he said, smiling. Abruptly, he pushed off his desk and crossed the room to a smaller table, line on one side with bottles of wine and on the other fine-looking alcohols. He picked up a bottle of red wine and poured himself a celebratory glass. "A drink?"

Edmund shook his head politely. His hand unconsciously felt his pocket where a few coins from his most recent pay rested with delightfully comforting weight; he would treat himself to a few drinks that night, but later.

The wine was gone in one quick gulp. With his free hand, he opened the small drawer. "Have you ever seen this man?"

Edmund took the stiff parchment. A pirate stared back at him, a mane of unkempt hair in a halo around his head and a mocking grin on his face. _Jack Sparrow_, he read, _Wanted Dead or Alive for Committing Crimes against the Crown, Theft, and Murder._ He shook his head. "No."

Beckett tapped on the poster with a pale finger. "This is your job." At Edmund's look of confusion, he continued, "You are to find this man for me. He has been captured several times in the past, but each time, without fail, he escaped. You are to find this man and bring him to me; if the situation calls for it, bring him to me dead." He paused to let his words sink in. "Are you still so sure that you wish to sail with my men?"

"Yes." His voice was hard and determined.

Beckett held out his hand. They shook, each looking the other straight in the eye. "Then we have reached an accord?"

"I will do my best, sir. I will find him."

"Good." He walked with Edmund to the door. "I will send you your official orders in a few days' time. But it is extremely important that you remember–" With a hand on his shoulder, he stopped Edmund and turned him about, leaning in close to him. In a conspiratorial voice, he said, "You must remember that _no one_ can know. Can you do that?"

Edmund nodded. "Yes, sir." He opened the door. "I– I look forward to working with you, sir."

Lord Beckett stood in the now-quiet room, contemplating the closed door. Behind him, Mercer stepped inside from where he had been standing on the balcony. "Sir." His frown was deep, and he looked rather unhappy with the proceedings. "If you will permit me to say–"

Beckett turned around and went to pour himself another drink. He remained silent and attentive, waiting for Mercer to continue, but not looking at him.

"If you will permit me to speak, sir."

"Go ahead."

Mercer paused in a rare display of attempting to choose his words carefully. "I'm not certain that was the wisest decision."

"You aren't?" Beckett smiled to himself, still facing away from Mercer, and stepped farther into the room, toward the windows opposite the balcony. "Do go on."

Mercer followed him, stopping a few feet away. "Are you certain that the boy will be able to carry out your orders? That maybe it would be wiser to entrust such an important job to someone more experienced in matters such as this?"

Beckett turned. "Such as yourself?"

Mercer looked down, jaw clenched. "Not necessarily myself, sir, but someone who has some sense of secrecy and duty."

Beckett grinned. He offered his clerk a glass of wine; Mercer made no sign of noticing the offer. "Yes, you see, that's the beauty of it." He walked lightly over to his desk and sat down, looking again at Edmund's papers. "If I had entrusted someone of more experience to carry out my orders, I know for certain that it would have ended badly. The experienced ones are shrewd. They know all the tricks – and I know that I would end up on the losing side. They would instantly seize upon the opportunity of blackmail. But this boy has no experience of the sort." He finished the last of his wine, swishing it for a moment in his mouth before swallowing. "I can trust him. He has no ulterior motives. Not while he's still so young."

Mercer turned to face Beckett, resigned. He knew what to expect.

"Mr. Mercer." Beckett handed him the papers. "His mother was a whore, wasn't she? I want you to find out as much as you can about him and his family. See if you can't find the identity of his father. After all," he said, turning back to the numerous accounts he had to attend to, "it never hurts to have something with which to bargain."

Mercer slipped quietly out the door. When Beckett glanced out the window, he saw the retreating form of the jaunty-stepping boy Seward, trailed by the smooth shadow of Mercer's coat.

**Author's Note**: (Oh, how I do love writing villains.) This, I believe, introduces the only (main) original character in this series. As far as I can tell, at this point. I have up to chapter fourteen outlined, and enough material for a good deal more than that, but any writers out there know how much the original intentions tend to change as the story progresses. There's really no telling what will happen! And, sorry that this chapter was quite a bit shorter than usual (more than a thousand words, oh dear), but I didn't want to force it.  
And thank you for the reviews and watches and favorite! Much appreciated.


	4. Chapter Four

**Disclaimer**: I do not own anything from _Pirates of the Caribbean_, and I don't claim to.

**Chapter Four**  
_The HMS _Albatross_, Port Royal, Jamaica_

Jack adjusted quickly to the life of a prisoner. Certainly, in the past he had never been a prisoner for long, but he figured that if he added up all the days he had spent locked up in some prison somewhere for some crime, he was rather experienced with the life of a criminal. He liked to think himself an expert.

His accommodations on the _Albatross_ weren't all that bad, as brigs go. He was, of course, stuffed in amongst the rest of his crew, but that wasn't a wholly unpleasant experience, mostly thanks to the size of the _Albatross_'s cells – they were far larger than the standard.

A marine appeared on the ladder that led to the gun deck above. One of their guards went to meet him, and they spoke together in quiet voices, glancing over at their prisoners. A key changed hands. The guard returned. "Sparrow?"

"Aye?" Jack stood and squeezed his way to the barred door.

"The vice-admiral has asked to speak with you." He turned the key in the lock.

"What an honor."

The marine grabbed him just before he walked out and pushed him against the bars as the guard closed the door. Jack noted with pleasure that they didn't put him in irons, just kept a very good grip on his arms and a rifle aimed behind his back. It was an improvement, really.

James was leaning leisurely back in his chair, one leg crossed over the other, cup of tea in one hand, musty novel in the other. He waved the men away, and one of them gave Jack a sturdy shove into the room before closing the door. James didn't notice. He finished reading his page before closing the book and turning to Jack. "You may sit."

"May I? How kind of you."

"If the winds hold, we will reach Port Royal early this evening."

Jack perked up. Port Royal meant Elizabeth – and Will, too, of course. He hadn't seen them in more than a year; could it be two now? He grinned to himself, imagining their faces when they saw him again after so long. Will would be shocked, of course, but Elizabeth might actually give him a hug–

James watched him with suspicion. "What are you smiling about?"

"Just remembering the last treasure ship I captured," he said, eyes staring off into the far corners of his conscious. He added quickly, appeasingly, "Joke. Just a joke. Please don't kill me."

James rolled his eyes in exasperation and squared his jaw. "Anyway, I brought you up here to make sure you're aware of what I will be doing – so you don't do anything stupid that costs us both our lives."

Jack sat back with his sweetest _I'm listening_ face on.

"We will be stopping in Port Royal for no more than a day or two, depending on how busy the admiral is. Now, your part in all of this is very simple: you are not to leave this ship, you are not to even show your face on deck. You will stay below, locked in the brig, for the duration of our stay in port. I _know_ you, Jack." He glared at him significantly. "And I know that you're smart enough to follow my orders and not try to escape."

Jack held up his hand – his left hand. "I swear."

James stared him down. He continued levelly, "I will be going ashore to speak to the admiral, but I will not so much as even mention you in passing. To the admiral, to everyone, I haven't seen you in many, many years, ever since my foolish bout of pity when I let you go free. If he should find out that I have been lying to him–"

"I understand perfectly, former commodore, who is at present a vice-admiral."

"No, I don't believe you do." He stared at Jack a moment, really stared. And then he sighed and let his scowl drop and his weariness show. "Just go."

Jack paused before he opened the door. Through the clouded glass, he could see the outlines of two men standing guard. He turned back to James, who was now resting his head on a hand, eyes closed. When he didn't hear Jack walk out, James looked up.

"_What_?"

"Well–" Jack's eyes darted around the room; books were piled untidily on the floor, maps mounded on his desk, empty rum bottles lined the alcove beneath the windows, and guns and swords hung randomly about the walls. "It's not important." He slipped out.

---

Locked back in the brig and half asleep, Jack woke up to the sounds of activity above. He struggled through the mass of bodies to the door, pausing only long enough to place several crew members' hands in compromising places and chuckling to himself with glee.

"You, there." Jack pressed himself against the bar, reached his hands through. A marine – new, by the stiffness of his uniform – stood close by. He looked once over his shoulder, either checking to see if Jack was addressing him or hoping to find a senior officer at his shoulder who knew how to deal with pirates. "Yeah, you. Come here."

The guard approached him suspiciously. "What do you want?"

"Nothing! Nothing. I was just wondering what they're doing up there."

The boy looked at the low ceiling above. "Preparing to make port, I guess."

"Really?" Jack followed his gaze with an exaggerated sweep of his head. "That's just what I feared. You see, I need to speak to the commod– vice-admiral, and I need to speak to him before he leaves for Port Royal."

"I have orders not to let you out for any reason."

"You wouldn't be letting me out, per se. On the contrary! Because the com– vice-admiral told me _explicitly_ that he wanted to see me before he went ashore. He's expecting me, you see. So you wouldn't be letting me out."

The marine's brows furrowed. His hand went to the pistol at his hip, a reflex, like a safety blanket. "Well, if he really did need to see you, then I guess I see nothing wrong in taking you to him. I'll need to get someone else though, to escort you–"

"No!" The boy pulled the pistol out of his belt as he turned around, surprised. Jack held up his hands. "No, that won't be necessary. In fact, that would be very bad if you did that. Because– because then you would be leaving a whole crew of pirates alone, without any supervision, and we all know what sorts of trouble they can get themselves into when they're all together in a large group like this."

His pistol lowered slightly.

"What harm could there be in letting _one_ pirate out to go to a prearranged meeting? Right? I mean, I'm expected there, right? You people would know if I tried to escape, because Norrington's expecting me." Jack held his breath, smiling hopefully at the young boy.

He said hesitantly, "If you get me into trouble–"

"On my honor, I would never do such a thing to a fine lad such as yourself."

He had him. The boy took the key out of his coat and ducked out of sight for a moment, presumably checking to make sure the coast was clear – he wasn't entirely convinced of the safety of his plan.

Gibbs took that moment to whisper harshly to Jack, "Are you abandoning us, captain?"

Jack looked for the first time at his crew, cramped between the iron bars. Many of them had mutiny in their eyes. "Now, now, lads. It's not like that at all." He lowered his voice to a whisper. "I just have some business to tend to in Port Royal–"

The parrot squawked, "Elizabeth!"

Jack shot the bird a glare.

His men looked at him with more intensity now. "And what will happen to us if you're caught?"

Jack was saved having to respond when the marine hurried back into sight. "I don't see anyone; they're probably all above, readying the ship for port. If you go out now, you should be safe." He unlocked the iron door.

"I promise you, my boy: you aren't disobeying anyone. There's no trouble in this for you." He turned back to his crew, glaring sullenly at him from behind the wide iron bars. "And I will see you lads again soon."

Lucky for Jack, the brig was on one of the lowest levels of the ship, which meant that he had more opportunities to hide. He would have felt guilty for lying to his crew like that, except that– well, he didn't feel very guilty. He would be back, and no harm would come to them.

The deck was nearly completely dark by the time he heard the call for the boats to be lowered. Jack slipped quietly onto the main deck and into one of the boats that was being prepared. He knew what he was doing was probably the sort of thing that Norrington would classify as "stupid," but he couldn't help it if Norrington hadn't been more specific.

Jack hid himself beneath a large tarpaulin that covered some small piles of supplies and other assorted lumpy things that generally made it harder for him to get comfortable. Something cracked beneath him, and he hoped for his own good that it wasn't a glass something.

The men climbed into a boat, thankfully avoiding him, and he felt the first jolt of the boat being unevenly lowered. Soon they were on their way. He could hear Norrington to one side, presumably speaking to one of his lieutenants.

When the boats tapped gently against the docks, the men climbed out in a hurried frenzy. Jack pulled himself out with them, all the while thanking that it was so dark and that these marines didn't seem to notice the extra head amongst them. He hung back while the party walked briskly down the dark, candle-lit streets, toward the naval headquarters in Port Royal.

Jack had never been very familiar with Port Royal – after all, his stays there had been less than leisurely. But he knew it well enough to know that he should just follow a large street up the hill, and that it would eventually lead him to the Governor's mansion.

With one quick look back at the HMS _Albatross_, visible only by a few small lights set out to warn off other ships, Jack set off up the street. Those few people who were out so late all watched him openly.

Just as he had hoped, he arrived at the iron gate to the mansion. He stood with his face resting between two of the cool bars and stared up at the enormous building that sat majestically at the crest of the small hill, surrounded by palm trees and other foliage.

It was a simple enough job of picking the lock – it took him no more than three minutes – but gaining entrance to the house would be another matter entirely. He wasn't even certain that the Turners were still living with the good Governor. Jack tried to make himself look presentable – straightened out his coat and hat, tried desperately to do something to tame his hair, pulled together the neck of his shirt, and buttoned his fly. His boots clicked loudly on the stone of the drive.

The entrance was lit only by a single sputtering lantern, secured to the wall at eye level.

He could break in, of course. In fact, that might be the smarter thing to do. More direct. But then if he did break in and one of the servants found him, he would be chased out before he had a chance to explain himself. He had no idea where he should go to find Elizabeth and Will's room, anyway, so he would have to just wander around the halls. That would be dangerous, imprudent. But, then again, what good would it do just knocking on the door in the middle of the night?

Jack took a deep breath to steady his nerves, which were strangely anxious. Captain Jack Sparrow was never anxious.

He knocked on the door, three times, hard. And he listened. No sound. He tried again. The third time, he saw a sliver of light beneath the door: a candle.

A man on the other side of the door said, "Who's there?"

Jack cleared his throat. "Er. A friend."

The door opened just slightly, and almost by instinct, Jack stuck his foot in the small gap, holding it open. One eye, faintly lit by the candle, stared out at him. "What do you want?"

"Actually, I've come to see the Turners. They live here still, I hope?"

The man tried to close the door, and his eyes widened when it wouldn't shut any farther. "Get away from here, you!"

Jack squeezed half of his body through the crack and pushed against the man, all the while saying calmly, "Here now, let me in, will you? Go up and ask them if they'll see me. I'll leave if they don't want to." In his mind, he silently added, _Maybe_.

The man – a footman by the looks of his sleepwear – reached to the side.

But Jack was too quick for him. He cocked his pistol and pressed its barrel against the man's forehead before he had time to swing the cane against Jack's head. "Now, I was hoping I wouldn't have to do this." He pressed the gun harder into the man's head; he backed up into the entryway. Jack shut the door quietly behind him. "Go up and ask if Elizabeth and Will will see me. I assume they're still here? Otherwise, I'm sure you would have told me right off that they weren't, saved yourself the trouble." Jack took pressure off the trigger. He waved the man toward the stairs. "Go on."

The footman scrambled up the stairs, falling once and tripping over the edge of his long nightshirt at least three times. Jack watched him in amusement, then turned his attention to the rest of the room when he disappeared down the hallway.

He had never been in Elizabeth's mansion. It appeared rather nice, with gold leafing everywhere and lots of expensive-looking metal objects that lined the low tables.

He picked up an ornate candelabra and was admiring its craftsmanship, when he heard a shout from the top of the staircase.

"Jack!" Elizabeth stood at the top of the landing, gripping the railing. She was in her nightgown. "Jack, what are you doing here?"

Will appeared behind her. "Yes, Jack. I think that's something we'd all like to know." Elizabeth shot him a reprimanding glare.

"So cold, William," Jack said, grin on his face. He took off his hat and bowed. "So cold, especially since we haven't seen one another in so long."

**Author's Notes**: I have most of the rest of the story plotted out, so I have a good idea of where I'm going with this. I hope you enjoyed that chapter! Please keep reading and review!


	5. Chapter Five

**Disclaimer**: I do not own anything from _Pirates of the Caribbean_, and I don't claim to.

**Chapter Five**  
_The Governor's Mansion, Port Royal, Jamaica_

Elizabeth, despite the odd hour of the night for such things, insisted on making Jack a pot of tea. She ignored all his protests, happily telling him to sit down and shut it – in rather similar terms, too.

This unfortunately left him quite alone with the sleepy and surly Will. After a few awkward minutes of silence, Jack walked to the door that opened on the hall and peeked out in hopes of seeing Elizabeth walking towards him with a heavy tray of tea and hardtack, or whatever it was one ate with tea in Port Royal.

Nothing.

The footman who had tried to prevent his entry was just returning to his room near the main door; he scowled at Jack unpleasantly before shutting the door with a quiet snap.

Jack turned back into the room, back to Will. His hands danced nervously over his coat, resting on trinkets and buttons, his calloused fingers memorized how each one felt. Hesitantly, he cleared his throat and said, "A bit mad, isn't she?" His voice seemed unnecessarily loud in so small a room. Will glared at him. Jack tried again. "She seems to be adjusting rather well to married life, I see. I always said she would be happier married."

Will closed his eyes tightly for a moment, and Jack stood back a little, wary. He had sailed with Will long enough to know that the boy loved his sleep and didn't love being woken up from it. Especially by him. "What is it exactly that you want, Jack?"

"Want? I don't understand your–"

Will stood abruptly; Jack took a few steps closer to the wall, his hands automatically held out appeasingly. "Maybe you can fool Elizabeth with your pretty words and promises, but you won't fool me. There isn't any reason for you to visit, other than that you want something that we can give you." He searched Jack's face. "What is it? Money? Is it ever anything else with you?"

"Now, now. I hardly think I deserve that sort of reputation." Jack slid along the wall, unpinning himself from Will's glare. He walked around the room to the bookcase that lined one wall and started browsing; an attempt to alleviate the tension. "Can't I visit my favorite couple just for the sake of visiting?" He picked out a book and turned to face Will. "It's been more than two years, you know. High time for a visit, I thought. 'Jacky-boy,' I said to myself, 'You have stayed too long away from friends. You should really go and check up on them to make sure they're faring well without you there to look after them.'" He smiled and spread his hands. "And here I am."

Will's response was temporarily forestalled by the arrival of the tea. Elizabeth hurried in, carrying a large silver tray, on which sat a porcelain teapot, surrounded by matching porcelain cups and saucers, and a heaping plate of crumpets. She set the tray on the nearest end table and looked over to where Jack was standing, then over to Will. "Tea is ready," she said simply. The sleeves of her nightgown were rolled up, and her hair was swept back messily, several long strands escaping to frame her face. She was looking slightly flushed and completely oblivious to the conversation they had been having before she entered.

"Yes, thank you." Will moved over and poured himself a cup, dropping a sugar lump into the steaming liquid. He retreated to the opposite side of the room from Jack, silently blowing on his tea.

Elizabeth looked to Jack. She smiled. "Tea, Jack?" He scrunched up his nose and was about to refuse– but the look on her face stopped him. "I made this specially for you," she said quietly.

"Oh, all right." He cupped his hands around the warm sides of the porcelain, staring distastefully down into the discolored depths. But then he had a stroke of genius. He set the cup down on the end table again and searched through the pockets of his coat for something.

Elizabeth leaned forward and watched his hands eagerly. _Such a child_, Jack thought warmly. _Always expecting presents._

Finally, his hand touched upon what he was looking for. He drew out his hipflask and unscrewed the lid. He was about to pour a liberal dollop of the sweet, strong rum into his drink – to counteract the bitter taste, he reasoned – when Elizabeth snatched it out of his hands.

"No," she said firmly, and he thought some of her anger towards him was because he didn't have a gift for her. "Jack, why can't you just drink the tea?" It was a question that didn't need an answer. Without waiting, she said, "I'll get you some cream for it." She glared at him again before walking out to the hall, but Jack thought he saw a bit of a grin on her lips, an amused twinkle in her eye.

Alone with Will again. Jack didn't even try to make conversation this time. Whatever it was that Will was mad about now, Jack didn't feel like going out of his way to correct it. He stood by the bookcase, watching him.

Will eventually sat tiredly in one of the padded armchairs. "She seems to be glad that you're back," he said. There was some unspoken accusation in his voice. Jack would have addressed it, if it hadn't been for the frantic pounding that suddenly echoed in the entry hall.

Their heads both snapped to the source of the noise, and they waited in tense silence. Will made no move to answer them.

They heard the quick steps of the plagued footman, his angry shouts. He unlocked the door, and his anger soon fell away to shocked protests. "Sir! I demand that you stop right where you are! This is highly irregular! I will call for the constable if you do not exit _immediately!_"

The door to their small sitting room slammed open with an audible crack against the wall. Jack and Will remained still, staring in shock.

"You bastard! You lying, cheating, idiotic _bastard_!" Norrington punctuated every syllable with a long stride towards Jack. He was glaring at him aggressively, the red in his cheeks brightened even more by the contrast with his clean white collar.

Jack stared at him, too surprised to do more than take a few stumbling steps backwards.

Once within arm's reach, Norrington grabbed a handful Jack's coat and pushed him forcefully into the wall. Jack held up his hands, already opening his mouth to placate him, but Norrington started first. "You– you– do you have any idea what you could have done? Do you have any idea of the _magnitude_ of the damage you might have caused?" Jack tried to worm out from beneath him, but Norrington pressed down firmly on his shoulder. "I told you to stay on the bloody ship, and I damn well meant it! Do you have _any_ idea what would have happened to me if anyone had seen you?"

"Er–"

"It would be _my head_, Jack." He huffed and glared hard at Jack. His lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line, and the veins in his neck stood out in relief. When he started again, his voice was deceptively calmer. "It was bad enough that I let you go that one time – that was the start to all my problems. I should have sent you back to the gallows the moment we had you. Fuck honor!" His voice shook. "Honor will be my noose."

Jack waited for him to continue, and when he didn't, Jack said helpfully, "Well, I don't think anyone saw me, so–"

"Why didn't you just stay on the ship? How the hell did you get out of the brig?"

Jack grinned; he knew the answer to this. "I'm Cap–"

"Oh, bollocks!" His hand gripped onto Jack's coat tighter, pulling with it a few dreadlocks; Jack leaned his head painfully to the side. "It took me years to regain the trust of my superiors, and now you're– you've destroyed that! This was my last chance, Sparrow. My last chance for the life I deserve. I had to work for _Beckett_, because he was the only one that would support me." Something changed in his eyes at this; Jack didn't like it, whatever it was. He backed up a little, let off some of the pressure he had on Jack's shoulder. "I have gone through too much to let it all be ruined by the likes of you."

Suddenly, he had his pistol pressed against Jack's forehead.

A gasp from the doorway. "James!"

He turned his head toward her, and the anger in his face faltered, his arm drooped a little. "Elizabeth," he said quietly, wonderingly. He looked around and seemed to notice for the first time where he was.

Taking advantage of his momentary confusion, Elizabeth rushed over to him and pushed his pistol away from Jack, held it pointing to the ground. "What are you doing here?"

Jack took this moment to inch out of Norrington's line of sight and toward the door.

_Click._

He turned, head bowed in exaggerated defeat.

Norrington growled, "Don't you _dare_–"

"I wouldn't think of it."

"James." She moved in front of him, between him and Jack, demanding his attention. "What are you doing?"

The anger momentarily resurfaced before he could rein it in. "What am _I_ doing?" His jaw worked, and he never took his eyes away from Jack. "This– this –" He checked himself. "–this _scum_ was going to escape."

Elizabeth turned to Jack. "Escape?"

"I told him to stay on the ship," Norrington said fiercely. "I told him to stay hidden, because if _anyone_ knew what I was doing–"

"I'm not a dog for you to order around," Jack snapped.

"No, you're right – you're worse than a dog. A dog would have sense enough to follow the orders of someone who just offered to save his life. Don't bite the hand that feeds you, Sparrow."

"Save his life?" Elizabeth looked up at him with wide eyes. Will moved quietly across the room and placed a hand on her back; Jack had a hard time deciding if he went to her because he was worried or because he wanted to show everyone that she was _his_. Elizabeth didn't notice.

Norrington couldn't hold her gaze; his eyes drifted away from Jack, but his pistol was still trained on him. "I misspoke," he said. A desperate attempt to weasel out, Jack thought, and an attempt that wouldn't deter Elizabeth.

"Norrington needs my help," Jack supplied helpfully.

The room fell silent, expectant. Norrington wasn't meeting any of their eyes. Abruptly, he pushed past Elizabeth and Will and grabbed Jack's arm. Jack stumbled as Norrington swung him around and placed him in a spindly wooden chair. From his belt, he produced a set of irons and locked one end firmly around his wrist, the other around one of the rungs in the back. Rubbing his face tiredly, Norrington sat in one of the armchairs.

The others slowly sat down, staring at him. Will was the first to speak. "You needed _Jack's_ help?"

"Hey!" Jack sat up straighter, momentarily stopping his attempt to break the rungs to get free. "I resent the way you say _Jack_. Is it so hard to believe that I could help?" Everyone was ignoring him but Elizabeth, who only glanced at him in her calculating way.

"What is going on, James?"

Before answering, Norrington turned to Jack and gave him an ill-tempered glare that clearly communicated, _this is all your fault; if you had just done what you were told, we wouldn't be here, and I wouldn't have to be explaining to them what we have to do._ Jack guessed that, when they got back to the ship, he wouldn't be enjoying the welcome spaciousness of the larger-than-average brig much longer. "Nothing," he said tiredly, still not looking directly at them. "Just– Jack will prove to be– useful on my current mission."

"Useful," Will said. He looked at Jack, then gave Norrington an expressive look.

"He's having trouble with pirates," Jack said. "He needs me to talk to them, reason with them, because whenever he's within shooting distance of a pirate, he has this unshakable urge to kill the poor bugger."

"Then why haven't I killed you yet?"

Jack grinned. "Because you–"

Elizabeth interrupted. "I want to go with you."

They all turned to look at her. Of the three of them, Will looked the most surprised, and he nervously tried to reason with her. "Elizabeth, I don't know if that would be safe. No, I know it wouldn't be safe. I thought we'd talked about this before; I thought we agreed no more pirates."

"Will, obviously this is really important; something that might effect us later if we do nothing about it. Right, James?"

Jack couldn't see Norrington's face from his angle, but he could guess the expression. "Elizabeth– Will is right. Where we're going is no place for a lady. And even though you may have had some experience with pirates in the past–" Will's expression hardened at this. "–you were extremely fortunate to come out alive. It would be foolish to test your luck again; it would be tempting fate. I don't want you to get hurt."

Elizabeth's face had gradually been closing off to the world, until she appeared to be completely cut off and unaware that anyone was even talking. A lengthy silence followed. When she finally spoke, her voice was softer than would be expected. "But this isn't the life for me." Before Will could object, she said, louder, "I've tried it, and I don't like it. I want to go back to the sea. I'm tired of the dresses and the dinners and the balls and the compliments and the etiquette. I'm tired of it all. I'm suffocating, Will."

Without any delay, an argument ensued, with Norrington and Jack as the reluctant witnesses.

"I thought you told me you were happy."

"I was – I am. Will, don't take it that way."

"What way? What other way is there for me to take it other than that you have been lying to me?"

"I haven't been lying! I would be happy anywhere if you were there with me."

"Don't try to deter me, Elizabeth."

"I'm not– God, Will, you're so unreasonable!"

Jack said quietly, "Elizabeth." Her gaze snapped towards him, the remnant of her fury still on her face. Will looked ready to strangle Jack with his own hair. "Elizabeth, you shouldn't come. You should stay here."

Everyone went silent, shocked.

"You shouldn't come. Your place is here, just like my place is out at sea. Maybe you had fun playing pirate for a while, but that isn't the life for you, love."

She looked stricken. She remained staring at him – eyes wide and searching, lips closed tightly – until he spoke again quietly, urging.

"Elizabeth."

Finally, she looked away. She stood up quickly and walked over to the cooling teapot and ran her fingers over the smooth porcelain with its cracking paint. "All right," she said softly. Her back was rigid. "All right, I won't go. I spoke too hastily; I didn't know what I was saying."

The men let out a collective sigh of relief. Will stood and hovered nervously at her side; she turned and embraced him, burying her face in his shoulder so she wouldn't have to look at the others.

Norrington sat watching them a moment, immobilized; Jack could guess what was going through his mind. Then he silently stood up and moved to unlock Jack's cuffs from the chair; but he pulled Jack's hand behind his back and locked the other hand. Holding tightly onto the chain, Norrington led Jack out, nodding curtly at Will.

Back on the ship, Jack was pleased to note that Norrington placed him back in the brig with his crew; his way of thanking him, he liked to think.

**Author's Note**: This chapter gave me some trouble, so I ended up just rewriting the whole thing. I'm happy with the result, I think. And please, please don't make me beg for reviews; it's rather undignified. Thanks very much to those of you who are reviewing!


	6. Chapter Six

**Disclaimer**: I do not own anything from _Pirates of the Caribbean_, and I don't claim to.

**Chapter Six**  
_The HMS _Albatross_, Port Royal, Jamaica_

The summons from Beckett came early the next morning, as James sat at his desk eating breakfast. The only surprise he felt reading the short and concise letter was that Beckett hadn't sent for him the day before. He finished the rest of his simple toast and swallowed the last dregs of his tea.

Only his finest uniform would do for a meeting such as this. He pulled on his heavy blue coat, his single epaulette of a vice-admiral shaking merrily on his shoulder. His wig rested carefully on his head, his hat deftly atop it, his britches clean and white, his shoes shined. James stood in front of his small mirror and composed his face so that it was absent of any guilt.

_Of course_, he thought, _this might be completely unnecessary_. Beckett might have already learned of Jack's presence from one of his many spies. He wouldn't be surprised, the way his luck was holding. And if he had found out, it would be disastrous, not only for Jack, but for James, as well. Beckett wouldn't tolerate being lied to.

He took a quick detour before leaving the _Albatross_. The two guards he had assigned to watching the prisoners stood and saluted as he entered. Behind them, he saw Jack struggle through the close press of bodies to the front of the brig.

"No one is to let any of the prisoners out unless you hear the orders coming directly from my mouth. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir!"

The walk to the East India Trading Company's headquarters in Port Royal was like a death march. It was only a few minutes away from the dockside, but James could only see the masked hangman and the swinging noose ahead of him. Beckett wouldn't hesitate, he knew. If he suspected anything at all–

He was let in by one of Beckett's servant and led up the stairs. He had been in his office before, so many times that he could have easily found his way to the spacious room if he were blinded – which was not an unlikely turn of events.

The man bade James to wait in the hall. He stepped inside and said, "A Vice-Admiral Norrington to see you, my Lord."

James heard a faint "show him in." The man opened the door wide enough for James to walk past and quietly shut it behind him. From the east-facing windows came a warm glow of the early morning sun. Through the long window directly ahead of him, he could see the harbor, just beginning to wake up.

Beckett was at his desk, bent over some papers that he was reading with obvious boredom. Seemingly completely oblivious to James's arrival, he continued working, jotting down a few notes and violently scratching out a sentence or two, before he finally looked up. A tolerant smile tweaked the corners of his mouth.

He indicated the chair in front of him. "Sit, James." He pushed aside the piles of accounts and reports and clasped his pale hands in front of him on the desk. "I expect you know I summoned you here for a reason, not just for a little chat with your patron."

"I expected so, sir."

"Good," he said, smiling. He stood slowly and walked over to a tray of food James hadn't noticed before. He watched Beckett warily, but didn't move. "I haven't had any time for breakfast all morning. Would you care to join me? Tupper overcooked my bacon; perhaps you would like it instead?" He glanced over his shoulder at James and then turned to lean back against the edge of the table. "You're looking rather nervous today, James." He grinned.

_God help me, he knows!_ James cleared his throat and shifted in the chair, crossing a leg and attempting to appear relaxed and innocent. "Nervous, my Lord? What cause have I to be nervous?"

Beckett turned back to his breakfast. "I haven't a clue." He pulled out a chair and sat down, picking up his silverware. Before he began eating, he gestured impatiently for James to take the seat across from him. James obliged reluctantly.

Finished with one square of toast, Beckett said suddenly, "Now, I'm sure you're wondering why I've brought you here."

James nodded, silent. Mr. Mercer, well-known as Beckett's mercenary, was probably waiting behind him with the cuffs and the death warrant.

"As you may remember, after you disgraced yourself by letting a certain Jack Sparrow escape, I was the only person there for you. I vouched for your loyalty, your skill. I paid for your commission."

"I remember it very well, my Lord," James said quietly, "and I thank you."

"Yes." Beckett was watching him shrewdly, chewing an overcooked bacon strip. "And as your patron, I feel that I should be able to call a favor of you at any time of my choosing. Wouldn't that be a reasonable assumption?"

"Yes, sir."

He paused, watching James. Then he said, "You will have a guest on your ship when you next leave port."

"Sir?" James sat up straighter in his chair. _A guest?_ If he were forced to spend weeks aboard the same vessel as Beckett or Mercer, someone would end up dead, and James guessed it would be himself. He doubted he was quite brave enough to kill a man of such power. And Mercer would probably think of it first.

"Yes," Beckett said thickly through a mouthful of bacon. "He is one of my men – well, he wasn't until a few days ago. He will be carrying out a special request for me."

"Am I to run errands for you, sir?" James could hardly contain his annoyance. "With all the danger in these waters, with all the pirates attacking our settlements, I do not have the spare time to go out of my way to cater to your every whim."

Beckett looked up at him, completely unconcerned by James's open hostility. Rather, he seemed to expect it of him. "Oh no, you have me wrong; you won't be asked to go out of your way. His duty will likely be accomplished by his accompanying you."

"I don't understand."

Beckett swallowed his food. "Young Mr. Seward–"

James almost jumped out of his chair. "Seward? Edmund Seward?"

"You know the boy?" His lips twitched with an amused smirk.

It had been years since James had last seen Edmund. He had only been a boy then, a child. "My– Vice-Admiral Ingram was the boy's adoptive father. I know him well."

Beckett laughed aloud. "Well, then it is good fortune for you both!"

James settled back in his chair, a heightened sense of anxiety pulling at his nerves. Why would Edmund be working for Beckett? Ingram had never held the man in very high regard; ever since his arrival in the Caribbean, Beckett had been imposing himself in the Royal Navy's affairs, pushing them to commit more ships to protect the valuable shipments of cargo that Beckett's men carried. Ingram had expressed many times to James that the man would do better to–

Beckett interrupted James's thoughts. "Young Edmund will be carrying out a very important mission for me." He was taunting James.

"What mission, my Lord?"

"Of course you remember our friend Jack Sparrow."

"Very well, sir."

"Edmund is going to kill him for me."

James's heart nearly stopped; he coughed violently. He was unable to hide his surprise quickly enough. "Kill him?"

"Why? Is there a problem? Do you plan on pleading for the life of the man that nearly ended yours?"

His angry conversation at the Turners' echoed in James's mind. He said quietly, "No. But, if I may ask it, what is it that makes my Lord think that his accompanying me will help him find the pirate?" He tried to force away the thought of Jack, not even a mile away, locked and hidden in the brig of his ship.

"You will be around pirates," Beckett said impatiently. "He's bound to show up eventually. I know Jack; he is drawn to lawlessness, chaos."

James hardly heard what Beckett said, other than short snippets of his words. His mind was busily spinning. Edmund couldn't set foot on the _Albatross_. He would have to find a way to prevent him, or at least a way to delay it so that he could move Jack or ensure that Edmund sailed on a different ship.

"–tions?"

James snapped his head up, met Beckett's gaze. He was losing patience. "What?"

"I said, 'Do you have any objections?' Norrington, you're acting very strangely today."

"I didn't sleep much last night," he said absently. Quickly, he said, "But I do have an objection."

Beckett raised his eyebrows skeptically and sat back in his chair. "Continue."

"I wonder about the boy's safety. Sparrow may be a fool, but he's a dangerous fool. Edmund is still just a child; there is no way that he would ever be able to stand against Sparrow."

"I thought of that." He didn't add anything more; no soothing words, no deft assurances of the boy's safety.

Alarmed, James said, "And what did you conclude?"

Quietly, maliciously, Beckett said, "Well, he is not my son."

"So you would send him to his death?" James's hands gripped the arms of his chair, and his knuckles shone white, his veins a pale blue. He found himself wondering what Ingram would have done in his situation. Certainly he wouldn't have bowed down and let his foster son go merrily to be slaughtered.

He remembered something Ingram had said to him once, after he had refused to hang a prisoner: _There are some orders, James, which are never meant to be followed._ He had said this to him as James carefully cleaned the wounds on his back, great long rips from the cat-o'-nine-tails.

Ingram would have stopped this.

"James." He looked up to meet Beckett's eyes and tried his hardest to channel the iron will of his deceased mentor. "Tell me, do you fight so valiantly against Edmund's accompanying you out of interest for the boy, or perhaps for some other reason?" Something shifted behind Beckett's eyes, beneath the carefully pleasant mask. "You are fighting rather valiantly, James."

"For the boy's interest," he said quickly. He took a deep breath. "He will not come, not on my ship. This is wrong, no matter how I look at it. He will be throwing his life away when he has clearly earned much more than a meaningless death. I refuse."

Part of Beckett's calm mask fell away. He frowned. "He is a lieutenant in the Royal Navy, and you suggest that there is a difference between these two employments? He will die an early death in either case. And, being a Navy man yourself, would you deny that it is an honorable trade?"

Without thinking through what he would say, James snapped, "At least in the Navy he is fighting to protect his country's interests, not yours."

Beckett glared at him with open hostility now. His breakfast lay forgotten and cold before him on the table; his hands balled into tight fists. His jaw worked, his breathing quickened. Finally he said in a dangerously low voice, "If he doesn't sail from this port on this ship, than neither shall you."

James looked down. His life without a commission was not one he wanted to relive.

"I insist, Norrington." His voice was hard, not to be questioned or denied.

He said a quick, silent apology to Ingram for not having the strength enough. He nodded.

Some of the tension went out of Beckett's face. He stared James down until he was sure he wouldn't trouble him any longer with his defiance. Then he looked over to the far corner of the room, over James's shoulder. "Mr. Mercer."

James turned only slightly to glance over his shoulder. Mercer stepped silently out of the shadows and placed his pistol back into his coat. He had been listening the whole time, ready to step in to further convince Norrington if necessary.

"Please escort James out, Mercer."

James stood and walked to the door with as much dignity as he could feel beneath the weight of Ingram's inevitable disapproval and anger – wherever he may be.

Beckett stopped him for a word before he opened the door. "I expect that you will be leaving Port Royal tomorrow. I will bring Edmund to the HMS _Albatross_ in the morning."

"Yes, my Lord."

---

The first thing James did, as soon as he was free and out of sight of Beckett's headquarters and Mercer's unnerving stare, was walk straight to the docks. He stopped the first boy dressed in a lieutenant's uniform with a rough grip on his arm. "Do you know Edmund Seward?"

The boy looked surprised. "Er. Yes, sir." His eyes darted nervously to James's epaulette, and his hand went automatically to his forehead in a salute.

"Where is he, do you know?"

The lieutenant took in James's anger and agitation in one wary once-over. Hesitantly, he asked, "Would he be in much trouble, sir?"

"No," James snapped impatiently. "I need to speak with him. Urgently."

"Oh." Another nervous glance. "He– I mean to say, I think– I think I saw him in a tavern. Over there. On the corner."

James was off at a brisk pace before the boy had even finished. He peered up at the sign of the indicated tavern: _the Thirsty Sailor_. He pushed open the door and cast about, searching for Edmund's familiar face.

A sharp laugh towards the back of the establishment drew his attention. A group of sailors, still in their uniforms, sat clustered together around the bar, a couple plates of bread and meat and cheese spread out between them. They continued talking and laughing until one of them saw James approaching. He nudged the others and they all hurriedly stood and saluted him.

Edmund was toward the back of the group. He saw James first. "Uncle?"

The other boys turned to him, shocked. Some of his friends questioned him quietly, but he remained staring at James, more surprised than frightened. James beckoned to him. Edmund extricated himself from the crowd, muttering quick apologies. He walked ahead of James out the door.

But the minute they were on the street, Edmund spun around with a wide grin on his face. "Did you see the looks on their faces when they saw you? I thought Nate was going to vomit he was so frightened. And their reactions when I called you 'uncle'?" He laughed easily. "It's good to see you again!"

"We've been through this before, Edmund. I really would appreciate it if you would stop calling me that. It gives people the wrong impression."

"Father told me I could."

Norrington spoke without thinking. "Well, he wasn't really your father." The boy's sudden stricken look reminded James what he was dealing with. Ingram hadn't been dead more than a few months; and Edmund had been so fond of him. He sighed. "I'm– sorry, Edmund. I just– I'm under quite a bit of pressure, right now. I saw Lord Beckett this morning."

"Did you?" His tone was distant, disinterested. He was sulking like a little boy. James couldn't help but remember the days he had spent with Ingram, interacting awkwardly with the hyperactive youth.

He stopped him with a hand on his shoulder and turned Edmund to face him. "Did you agree to work for him? For Beckett?"

"I asked to. I wanted to; I _want_ to." He wouldn't meet James's eyes.

"Why?" James said angrily. "Have you considered the dangers involved?"

"Of course I have," he said quietly.

"This is not a job meant for you, Edmund. Beckett is using you. He knows that you will die–"

"And maybe I will!" He pulled out of James's grasp. "Maybe I will die; I probably _will_. But you're wrong; I _am_ meant for this. You might remember my mother." He was shaking with emotion and having a hard time keeping is voice steady and even. "They took me from her. Don't I deserve the satisfaction of showing these _pirates_ the pain they put me through? Don't I deserve revenge?"

"You have had a hard life, Edmund, but so have we all. I've lost many friends to pirates; I almost lost my own life at the other end of a pirate's pistol more times than I can count. But I know that killing Sparrow will do nothing to heal you."

Edmund walked away. James watched him walk up the street, turn a corner, disappear from sight. He didn't have the heart to stop him.

**Author's Note**: This will probably be my last post for a few weeks. I'm going on vacation, and I have no idea if I'll be able to access the internet where I'm going. So expect this story to be quiet for a bit. (But don't let that keep you from reviewing!)  
Thanks for the reviews! Keep reading! (:


	7. Chapter Seven

**Disclaimer**: I do not own anything from _Pirates of the Caribbean_, and I don't claim to.

**Chapter Seven**  
_The HMS _Albatross_, Port Royal, Jamaica_

Beckett collected Edmund early the next morning – as though he needed collecting; he was up all night for excitement – and delivered him to the HMS _Albatross_ as promised.

Edmund was in the middle of his fifth rather nervous turn around the deck of the ship when he saw a carriage pull to a stop near the pier. He was leaning up against the rail in a heartbeat, peering futilely at the window in hopes of seeing if the carriage was for him.

The door opened and a tall man dressed in all black, except for his clean white collar, lowered the metal stairs and stepped down onto the street. Edmund thought he could see another figure farther inside, in the darkness. The man in black approached alone.

As he got closer, Edmund realized that he had seen him before – with Beckett. He was Lord Beckett's man. All his doubts – that maybe Beckett would change his mind, or maybe he was never serious to begin with, maybe this was James's attempt at an edifying experience – were immediately crushed by the sudden wave of relief inside him. He hesitated a moment, unsure of what to do.

There was so much that he now realized that he had to do: the gangplank had to be lowered, but he would need help for that, it was much too big for him to handle on his own; he had to collect his few belongings, which luckily were few, thanks to him being only just a lieutenant; his captain had to be notified; he had to say goodbye to his mates–

"You there!"

Edmund returned to the railing and tried to look composed. "Aye, sir?"

The man squinted up at him. "You're the boy– Seward, aren't you?"

"Aye, sir."

"Lord Beckett is waiting for you," he said, and part of his tone seemed to add, _And he won't be waiting long_.

"Aye, sir." Edmund glanced at the carriage again; still no physical sign of Beckett. He bowed quickly toward it – he could feel the eyes of the man concealed inside upon him – then went quickly about his duties.

He snuck into the midshipmen's quarters, careful not to disturb the sprawled bodies that covered the floor and swung close by in hammocks. He gathered up his bundled belongings, hardly more than a few pounds, and most of it clothes. He turned and looked around at all the sleeping faces of his friends, enemies, some of whom he had known since he first started sailing nine years ago.

He saw Nate's face among them and gripped his friend's shoulder hard.

Nate started, sat up, thought better of it and gripped his head in his hands, lay back down, moaned pitifully, then shot back up and said, "Oh shit, is it my watch?" before he saw the bundle in Edmund's arms. "What–? You're not leaving already, are you?"

Some of the other boys had begun to stir, so Edmund motioned for Nate to follow him into the cramped hallway.

With a quick glance back at their messmates, Nate whispered harshly, "You're leaving?"

"I told you before that I would." He glanced to the faint rays of light he could see from the ladders up to the deck. "I don't have much time," he said.

Nate furrowed his brows, then– "Wait right here." He rushed back into the midshipmen's berth; there was a loud _thump_ and some shouts of protest. Nate appeared again, holding something in his hand. "Here," he said, pushing it into Edmund's hands. "I want you to have this."

Edmund looked down. It was a pistol, one that Edmund had admired before. It was delicately crafted and strangely heavy in his hands. "Nate–"

"You'll probably need it more than I will," he said. He gave Edmund a calculating look – Edmund had never told him exactly where he was going, other than that he had been commissioned to do a job for Lord Beckett. "Use it well – or, I guess I hope you won't have to. I hope that Beckett's hired you for some menial work, taking dictation, figuring accounts." He smiled and rested a hand on Edmund's shoulder, keeping him at arm's length; Edmund mirrored him.

What might have been an awkward, emotional moment was broken by Nate lightly boxing Edmund's ear.

Nate helped Edmund lower the gangplank; the man in black was still waiting on the dock, although he was looking less and less patient. He walked briskly up the plank as soon as it was stable and said briskly, "Where is your captain?"

"Er." Edmund glanced quickly at Nate, who was making a face behind the man's back. "I think he's still asleep, sir. But I can go get him."

"I will accompany you."

Edmund and Nate exchanged a look before Edmund started toward the captain's quarters.

He knocked hesitantly and was surprised to hear a very awake "Come in!"

The man in black brushed past him as he opened the door. Around the man's dark coat, Edmund saw his captain glare reproachfully at the intruder. "My name is Mercer," the man said. "I'm here to collect the boy on Lord Beckett's orders."

"Oh," the captain said, glare slipping off his face. "Yes, of course. I have his papers," he said, shuffling around his desk for them. He handed Mercer a small pile of untidy papers.

Mercer nodded curtly. "Lord Beckett is waiting," he said, mostly to Edmund.

The captain grabbed Edmund's arm. "He'll be there in a moment. Seward, I need to speak to you."

"Very well," Mercer said, but the sneer on his face said otherwise.

The captain waited until Mercer had closed the door behind him before saying quietly, "I spoke to the vice-admiral–"

"James?" He scowled. "And I suppose he told you that I'm unqualified for the job."

"No." He sat back down, looking tired. "He's worried about you Edmund. And, frankly, I am, too; he told me what Beckett would have you do."

Edmund asked warily, "What did he tell you?"

"Only that Beckett had put you up against a dangerous man."

"I can handle him," Edmund said firmly, and he thought of Nate's pistol now firmly in his belt, beneath his jacket. He didn't have to stay here and be lectured – the man wasn't even his captain anymore. "If you will excuse me, sir." He held out his hand. "It's been a pleasure working under you; you're an excellent captain."

He grasped Edmund's hand, and didn't let go when Edmund tried to pull away. "Good luck. Don't do anything Ingram wouldn't have wanted you to do."

Beckett's face was in the shadows when Edmund walked in, but he could see from the way that the man sat that he wasn't at all pleased being made to wait so long. As soon as the door closed, the carriage lurched forward, and Edmund, sitting across from Beckett, almost fell into his lap.

"Having doubts, Edmund?" Beckett asked, his voice quiet.

"No, sir."

"Good." Beckett leaned forward, and light from the window fell on his face, casting dark, unnatural shadows. "I would hate to have to find someone else on such short notice. It's bad business."

Edmund nodded, but he was still fuming. Everyone doubted his competence, treated him like he was still a child. But he was smart, and he knew it – after all, he passed the Lieutenant exam his first try. That ought to count for something. And even though pirates might be vicious and violent, none of them had any sense of _strategy_; Edmund had taken _classes_ on strategy.

The ride to the HMS _Albatross_ was a short one, just down the wharf, and Edmund wondered vaguely why they had taken a carriage at all. _To arrive in style_, he decided. They were all silent, and he avoided looking into either of the other two men's eyes.

Finally the carriage stopped suddenly. Out the window, Edmund could see the towering masts and limp canvas of the _Albatross_. He regarded her with a keen eye and decided that she was seaworthy enough. The ship was smaller than the HMS _Minotaur_, his previous post. She had less cannons, he noticed, quickly counting the number of gun ports on the side he could see, and her masts didn't look quite as majestic. But she was more graceful; where the _Minotaur_ relied solely upon utter might and thick wood – much like her namesake – the _Albatross_ was sleek and slim, made for the chase.

Mercer opened the door and lowered the steps. Beckett walked out before Edmund and started walking to the ship without waiting. The gangplank was down; Beckett was already up it and on the deck by the time Edmund reached the dock.

He was talking to James.

When Edmund cleared the top of the plank, James looked over to him and gave him a Significant Look. Edmund scowled back, but he realized quickly that he didn't know where he was supposed to put his belongings, since this wasn't his ship, so he had to stand around like an arse until James and Beckett finished talking.

"I expect I don't have to remind you of our agreement, James," Beckett was saying.

Edmund couldn't see Beckett's face, but he could see James's reaction to it. He frowned, a deep crease appearing between his brows. "How could I forget it, sir?"

"Ah, yes. Of course." There was a smile in his tone, patronizing. "You do have such a long memory, after all. But there is something else I must speak to you about, before you are under weigh–"

"Perhaps we could take this into my cabin?" He looked over to Edmund as Beckett and Mercer headed obligingly for the double doors. "Tom will help you find the way to the wardroom," he said and left Edmund standing alone on the deck, clutching his stuffed bag to his chest.

Someone gripped his shoulder. Edmund spun around; a tall man with an uneven mop of dark hair and leathery skin did his best to grin down at him, though it made Edmund feel more nervous than at ease. "This way," he said in a surprisingly soft voice. He jerked his head toward the familiar dark square of the ladder down to the lower decks. With one scarred hand – which, Edmund realized with a shock, had only four fingers – he grabbed his bag from his arms and started for the ladder. Edmund had no choice but to follow.

He wasn't sure why James had thought that he would need escorting to his sleeping quarters – one ship was much the same as another, especially Navy ships, which seemed to follow the motto "Sameness is godliness." The wardroom was exactly where he expected it to be.

"In here," said Tom, rather unnecessarily. "You get your own room now, however small it may be. Your quarters are behind the third door on the right." He shoved Edmund's bag back into his arms.

"Thank you," Edmund said, stumbling slightly. "But, er."

Tom stopped and looked back.

"Er, why am I bunking with the other officers? I'm not to have the duties of a lieutenant, am I? I was given to understand that as I am in the employ of Lord Beckett…" His voice trailed off.

"Well, that's to be determined, isn't it? Anyway, would you rather be sleeping on the deck, or with the other sailors, or in the hold?" Tom grinned. "I wouldn't complain too much if I were you; the wardroom isn't all that bad." And with that, he tromped off back above deck.

Edmund slowly opened the door Tom had indicated. It was no more than a few feet wide and a little longer than that. Edmund had grown used to sleeping amongst a score of other boys, their hammocks swinging in time with the dips and bucks of the ship; now he would be alone. He would appreciate the privacy. There was a small bed in the corner, but little else. He set his bag down on top of the bed.

He wasn't sure how long James and Beckett would be talking (he hoped it wasn't about him at all), and he wasn't sure exactly what he should be doing at the moment. It wasn't his ship – he was more of a guest – and he had only just arrived, so they couldn't expect him to help ready the ship for sail when he had no idea of this captain's certain quirks and unique rules.

_It couldn't hurt to explore._

The gun decks were very much the same as the ones on the HMS _Minotaur_, except – as he had guessed – the _Albatross_ had fewer guns. Not many fewer, mind, but the difference was notable. The crew would be smaller then, he thought.

He wandered aimlessly over each deck, looking around the odd corners, inspecting the galley, avoiding the eyes of the sailors that watched him suspiciously. He tried his best to project the confidence of a commissioned officer of the Royal Navy, a hired man of Lord Beckett, head of the East India Trading Company – and failed miserably. He was relieved when he heard two men speaking to each other, one of them saying something about "readying the sails." He would be alone below decks.

Well, mostly alone.

He was well below the water line by now, and everything was cooler and damp. He could fairly feel the pressure of the millions of tons of water pressing in on him from all sides.

Everything was dark, except for the faint light from the decks above, so he was surprised to see a flickering yellow glow of light ahead. He approached cautiously, readying a brisk speech about "inspecting" and "carry on, man."

Until he realized it was the brig. The candle flickered and he saw bodies, faces, like one huge, moving, breathing mass.

His first question was: Who are they?

His second was: Why are they still on the ship?

The only conceivable reason for which James would have stopped at port would have been to hand over prisoners he caught at sea – but they were leaving port, and these men were still huddled behind rusting iron bars.

His boot scuffed on one of the warped boards of the floor, and all faces turned to him. "Er."

"Don't recognize you," a voice said. For a moment, Edmund couldn't spot the speaker, until the man pushed forward from behind the wall of bodies in front of him. He pressed himself to the metal bars and rested his arms on horizontal rods, looking relaxed, in control. "Although, to be fair, I don't get out much to see the crew. I doubt I've even seen half of you."

This last bit was lost on Edmund. He almost had a fit. His quickened pulse drowned out any sound until the roar of his blood was the roar of ocean heard in a shell.

The man– the man from the poster. The man he was supposed to kill.

"You all right, boy?" Jack asked, squinting at him.

Edmund's hands reached for the Nate's pistol, which he realized with panic was back in his room, and he backed into the hallway. He heard Jack shouting faintly from somewhere behind him, but he took the stairs of the ladders two at a time until he had passed the deck of the wardroom and his weapons and was on the uppermost deck in the crisp air and amidst the crowd of men doing the necessary preparations to go to sea.

Beckett was just leaving James's cabin, Mercer close behind him, James himself following more slowly, his face stony and blank. "I hope to hear from you soon," he said to James as he started down the gangplank.

"Believe me, sir, nothing would give me greater pleasure than to come to you with a satisfactory report." His words were hollow and rehearsed.

Beckett smiled.

"James!" Edmund stumbled over to him. "Uncle! I must speak to you! Down there– I just saw–"

James clapped his hand over Edmund's mouth. The boy froze in shock.

Beckett had stopped at this and was looking back at Edmund with a level of interest he had never shown toward him. His eyes settled sharply on James. "What's this, James? A secret you've been keeping from me? Let the boy speak. What did you see, Edmund?"

James reluctantly let his hand fall to his side, but one he kept gripping hard onto Edmund's upper arm. He squeezed it, his fingers digging into Edmund's muscles.

Edmund quailed slightly under Beckett's intense stare. "I– I saw–" He looked up at James, who was staring back at Beckett. His mind screamed, _No you fool! Idiot, such a stupid, good for nothing little turd, this isn't some game, this is life and Beckett wants this man for some reason or another and it's probably a good one, too, seeing as how he's a pirate and you should just tell him and be done with it and why is Uncle squeezing so hard, but why is the pirate on this ship, shit, Beckett will have me killed if I don't tell him_–

"I saw a woman."

And the voice went silent, overpowered by the deafening rush of shame and shock of lying, and all he could think of was the look Ingram had given him once when Edmund had done something to embarrass him.

"A woman?" Beckett repeated, eyebrows rising mockingly. "My, James, I wouldn't have placed you as that kind of man."

"Must be one of my men's, sir," James replied quickly. "I will handle it."

"I do hope so," he said, but his mind was already on other, more important things. He walked off and stepped into his carriage without another word, followed always by his black shadow, Mercer.

The panic slowly dissipated. And with it came the realization of what he had done. "_James_!" he shouted suddenly, gripping his arms. "James, I have to tell him. I saw Sparrow! Sparrow! Sparrow is in your brig, and I have to tell Beckett–"

The carriage was out of view by now. James ripped his eyes away from the turn it had disappeared around and dragged Edmund to his cabin.

The heavy doors slammed shut behind them, bouncing slightly with the impact.

James slammed him against the wall in a moment.

Edmund sputtered in shock. "Wh– What– What are you doing? What–?"

"_You saw nothing_," James said savagely. There was something crazed in his eyes, like a cornered animal.

"It _is_ Sparrow." He couldn't stop the hurt accusation from coloring his voice. He had never respected James – or anyone for that matter – as much as he had respected Ingram, but he would never expect James to sink this low.

James said nothing.

"I'm supposed to kill him, Uncle. You know this. As I remember it, you didn't think I would be able to, and now I'm starting to wonder why. Was it because you planned to protect him and you didn't think I would do everything in my power to get to him – kill you if I had to." These last words came in a rush, and even as he said them his voice shook and he knew he wouldn't ever be able to do it. He said the only thing that he thought might sway James. "Ingram would have done something."

The dangerous animal in his eyes faded, and he looked sadly at Edmund. "There are some orders, Edmund, that are never meant to be followed."

"This man is a _pirate_. He is _dangerous_–"

"Don't speak to me as though I don't realize that." James's jaw worked in frustration. "You're still too young, Edmund. You don't understand yet that there are greater evils out there, greater evils than just one man could ever create."

"I–"

"No, let me finish." He let off some of the pressure on his shoulders. "There are hoards of pirates endangering the lives of countless citizens of the England. People are _dying_, Edmund, people are dying because we don't have enough power on our side to stop their sheer masses. Innocent people are dying."

"And what does _he_–" Edmund jerked his head to the decks below, "–have to do with that?"

"He will be– useful" was all James said, and even that seemed to take effort.

"But–"

"Sir, ready to make sail!"

James turned to the door. "A minute."

The shadowy figure on the other side of the glass moved away.

Turning back to Edmund, he said briskly, "I won't speak of this any more. And I don't trust you enough to behave, so–" Out of his belt, he drew a set of irons. Edmund tried to struggle away from him, but James was a good deal taller, and he easily overpowered the boy and dragged him over to be locked onto the leg of his sturdy table, bolted to the floorboards. "Hopefully you'll be able to stay out of trouble here." He turned and walked out onto the deck.

"Get back here, damnit! Uncle! Let me go; unlock me! I know that you can hear me, you're not that far away yet! Goddamnit!"

He shouted himself out before too long, and he leaned his head back against the table leg, wrist smarting from tugging so hard, head aching from trying to stand too quickly and forgetting that he was sitting under a table.

James came back more than two hours later, to find Edmund valiantly battling to keep his drooping eyelids open, slouched over with his head poking out from beneath one of the table corners.

He bent down next to his adopted nephew and unlocked the iron around his wrist. "There," he said in soothing tones. "You can go belowdecks now, get some sleep. We can discuss your duties on the ship later, after you're not– after you've rested."

Edmund didn't immediately sit up, though the anger and indignation that again surged forth was enough to wake him up; his eyes stared forward moodily. He wanted to show him that _he_ was the one in control of whether or not he was sleepy, not _James_. He was the one deciding when he wanted to go belowdecks.

James hovered by his side, out of his range of vision, seeming as though he wanted to say something. But finally he sighed, stood up, and pulled out the chair behind his desk and began working.

After a few minutes had gone by, Edmund got up and shuffled out, letting the door slam behind him. It was still before midday, but the main deck was less crowded now, as some of the men had retreated below, as they weren't on watch. Edmund was spared having to walk through the crowd of new faces, since the wardroom was on the deck above where the crew slept on the Lower Deck, but as he passed by one of the ladders that led below, he could hear the shouting and laughing.

There were some men in the small open room at the end of the narrow hallway, their figures thrown into shadow by the brilliant sunlight that streamed through the wide windows, but Edmund didn't feel like introducing himself just yet. He opened his door quietly and none of them seemed to notice – nobody said anything, at least.

He noticed now that there was part of that window in his room, and the brilliant ocean reflected the light of the sun back into his face. He also noticed that his bed didn't have any sheets, nor could he find any in the room. These were probably something he was supposed to have brought, but that everyone had neglected to tell him about.

Annoyed and in too bad a mood to go and inquire about obtaining sheets and a pillow, he shoved his bag onto the floor and curled up on the lumpy mattress. He would miss the comforting pressure of the canvas hammock that cradled him on all sides, leaving only a foot wide gap for air above–

Something hard rolled out on the floor from inside his sack.

He looked over the edge of the bed and immediately made a desperate grab for the object. It was cool against his palm, and just holding it made him feel a little better.

He uncurled his fingers and looked down at it – a ring, his mother's, or used to be, before she–

He knew it well; he had looked at it at least once a day, every day for as long as he could remember. Ingram had first given it to him when he began his service in the Navy at age ten. He hadn't told him much about it then, just that it had been his mother's and that he should keep hold of it with his very life. More of the truth would come out as he got older.

It was made of gold, molded into delicate designs on the surface – vines, animals, words in another language – and set in its top was a large, deep red stone. It was mostly opaque, but only because of the strange color; if Edmund turned it so that the light hit it right, he could see the engraving of a suit of arms that he didn't recognize – a lion on one side, a bird on the other, a pair of swords crossed between them. It just fit on his ring finger.

He had relaxed a good deal, holding the one thing that connected him to the family he had never known. Before he fell asleep, he heard Ingram say to him, out of the past, "This was your mother's, Edmund. Before she died, she had wanted you to have it, because, she said–"

"You knew her?" little Edmund asked eagerly. "You knew my mother? What was she like?"

Ingram smiled sadly. "No, Edmund, I didn't know her. But she was a fine woman, that I know, whatever anyone else will tell you."

Edmund stared up at Ingram for a moment, then said, "Why did she want me to have it?"

Ingram smiled and resumed from where Edmund had interrupted him. "She said that itt was the only thing that you would be able to remember her by, the only thing that would remind you of what you needed to do."

"What did she want me to do?" Edmund asked. "Do– do I have to– to kill pirates?" His voice squeaked at the end.

Ingram smiled. "Well, we will speak of that another day. But I think one of her deepest wishes was for you to find your father…"

Author's Note: The chapter that would not quit! I'm sorry that this took so long to update, but Real Life kept getting in the way of me writing this. I hope that this extra long chapter will make the long absence up to any of you out there that are actually reading this! Hopefully a few more updates this week, before I go off _again_ for another few weeks. So, if you're enjoying this, please let me know! It always helps to know that you're writing something that other people can enjoy.

I learned something interesting while writing this chapter: _Hello_ and its variants weren't used until the mid nineteenth century (as far as I can tell). So that makes me wonder: what did they say before, exactly? Anyone know?


	8. Chapter Eight

**Disclaimer**: I do not own anything from _Pirates of the Caribbean_, and I don't claim to.

**Chapter Eight**

_The HMS _Albatross_, several days away from Jamaica, somewhere in the Caribbean Sea_

Edmund avoided James as much as he could over the next few days. Whenever he saw James on deck, he would duck down into the darkness of the upper deck, or even lower if James saw him and followed. His feelings of pettiness and immaturity started to grow after a week of this, as he hid from the prowling James by hopping into a musty closet that smelled of something rotting.

But he knew that he couldn't face James with any sort of civility until he had done something to assuage his guilty conscience, namely dealing with the hidden Sparrow.

He barricaded himself in his small room one day and pulled out a wrinkled piece of clean parchment and somehow located a quill and inkwell in the wardroom. The only flat area for writing on was the floor, so he spread out the paper and lay down on his stomach.

And he wasn't quite sure where to begin.

He decided that _To the Honourable Lord Beckett of the East India Trading Company_ was polite and specific enough.

_To the Honourable Lord Beckett of the East India Trading Company_,

_When last I saw you, something very heavy was hanging over my conscience, something very important and urgent, and I have regretted not telling you every day that has gone by, but when I tried to tell you that day, Vice-Admiral Norrington forbade me to speak a word._

Good enough, he thought. Navy boys were not necessarily well-trained writers, or at least they were not all gifted. His friends scoffed at writing – who needed to write if they owned a ship and a crew of four hundred men and if they were on a mission to kill pirates? That's what he wanted to know.

_... Vice-Admiral Norrington forbade me to speak a word. I hope that after I have told you what weighs so heavily on my mind you will be able to forgive me, for I could not live any longer with the poor opinion of your Lordship hanging over me like a cloud of disapproval._

There seemed to be a lot of hanging things in his letter. Edmund hoped that it wouldn't give Beckett any ideas in regards to him, the poor, bewildered child.

_… like a cloud of disapproval. I beg your Lordship's forgiveness._

_On that day of which I have spoken, you delivered me to the HMS _Albatross_, at much personal inconvenience to your person, I would assume with shame. I thank you for that small kindness of taking me to the dockyard in your magnificent carriage pulled by your majestic white horses that are the envy of anyone who sees them, of that I am sure . And the inside of your carriage: so luxurious and warmly decorated. Your Lordship has excellent tastes when it comes to making one feel welcome._

_After you had so graciously delivered me, I was left on my own to explore the ship I would be sailing upon thereafter and I found it to be good, with cannons in excellent condition and the galley pleasingly stocked. No doubt thanks to the forethought of your Lordship._

_But I encountered something very disturbing in my turns about the decks. I came upon a room separated from the others – the brig – and walked in, intending to examine the strength of the bars in case we should ever come upon pirates, namely Sparrow, as I had learned from you that he is a very crafty criminal and that only the most strongly crafted brigs would have any hope of keeping him._

_There is no use avoiding it any longer – I saw Jack Sparrow. He is locked in the brig below even as we speak, along with what looked like most if not all of his crew._

_It is my deepest hope that the vice-admiral has already alerted you to the situation, and that this is all a severe misunderstanding._

_I am terribly sorry,_

_Your Humble Servant,_

_Edmund Seward_

He waited for the ink to dry on his signature and stared despairingly at the numerous smears that blurred some of the words. It would have to do. He didn't have any more clean parchment. Most of it he had given to Nate once when his messmate had fallen in love, which meant numerous half-written letters discarded like snowballs in the corner of their berth and more wasted ink than he cared to think about.

If he had thought that writing it would be the most daunting task, he realized now just how undauting it was in relation to his next obstacle: how was he to get the letter into Beckett's hands while they were out at sea, without James finding out? It begged an answer.

For now, though, he would have to keep hold of the letter, at least until they ran across another ship heading back to Port Royal, or until they made landfall. Even then, would he be able to be inconspicuous enough to keep James from suspecting–?

"Edmund!"

He jumped and scrambled to stuff the letter inside his coat pocket, which was surprisingly hard to do while lying on the floor. "Er, yes, sir?"

The handle to his door jiggled, but his sea chest, which he had pushed across the floor and against the door, kept it from opening. Edmund lay on the floor, frozen.

"What is blocking your door?" James asked after a minute's silence.

"I– er, you see, I was actually– um–"

"Open the door– now."

Edmund tripped over to the door and shouldered his chest aside. When James walked in, Edmund stood looking at a point just above James's shoulder. But from his peripheral vision, he saw that James looked slightly relieved – probably because Edmund was wearing pants. But there was still a crease between his eyebrows, and he glanced around Edmund's room with obvious annoyance.

"Doors are never to be blocked on this ship, do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"And that's not just because I'm nosy, or because I plan on intruding on you like this often – this is for your own safety. What if the ship were to suddenly catch fire or take on water, and you had your sea chest blocking your only exit?"

"I understand, sir."

James paused and stepped to the side to see around Edmund, his eyes focused on the floor. "Were you writing something?"

"No–" _Shit, of course I was writing something, why else would I have an inkwell?_ "Well, I wasn't writing is what I meant. No, I was actually– drawing. Yes, drawing, sir, that's what I was doing."

James's face couldn't seem to be able to decide between amusement and anger. "You were in here, with your door blocked, drawing? While you should have been on deck making yourself useful?" The amusement took control for a moment: "What were you drawing? Can I see it?"

"Er, I'm sorry, sir, but it was something of a personal drawing," Edmund said evasively.

"Ah." Most of the amusement slid from James's face as he imagined just what something of a personal drawing would look like. "Well, if you're quite finished with your drawing–"

"I am, sir," Edmund interjected, "I've run out of paper, see."

"–if you're quite finished," James said, leveling a stern glare at Edmund, "then you are needed on deck. We plan to make landfall within the next few hours."

Edmund was docile an obedient for the rest of the day, feeling James's eyes on his back at all times. He would have to be more careful now, so that he didn't give James a reason to search his coat pockets. He felt as though he were wearing a sign on his forehead, directing anyone and everyone to look at his pocket. He began to understand the mindset of the wild men he sometimes saw on the streets in the ports they stopped at.

Soon after the bell rang for first dog watch, James cornered him at the prow of the ship. "Edmund," he said, and Edmund thought he saw his eyes fixed on the coat pocket where his letter lay hidden, as though he could see through the material. He crossed his arms awkwardly over the pocket, which elicited a stern frown from James. "Stand at attention, man."

Edmund carefully untwined his arms and clasped them behind his back.

"You have been avoiding me. Am I correct in thinking this?"

Edmund couldn't hold his gaze any longer; he let his head hang back a bit to look at the sky. Probably not a very wise thing to do, he decided later.

"You will look at me while I'm talking to you." His voice was like a verbal slap.

"I haven't, sir."

"Haven't what?"

"I haven't been avoiding you."

James clenched and unclenched his jaw. "I think I would like to see your drawing from earlier," he said clearly.

Edmund took a half-step back, surprised. He tried to wrestle the shock and evidence of his quick mental calculations off his face, but it was hard. He couldn't make his foot step back into place. "I– but sir, they're only silly little drawings. I don't understand– why would you want to trouble yourself with them? I mean, with all the work you do on this ship, I would think–"

"The drawings, Edmund." James' stare reminded him so much of Ingram's; it was the same Ingram was in the habit of giving him when Edmund came back late from a night of excess with his friends. It threw him off-balance.

"I–" His hand started inching of its own accord up to the pocket; he consciously pulled it down and gripped it behind his back. "I will have to go get it. If you'll just wait–"

"It's in your pocket," James said, nodded at his coat. "I'm no fool."

"No, of course not, sir." Edmund paused.

James' patience was almost lost. "What are you waiting for? Or would you like me to retrieve the papers myself?"

"No!" Edmund clutched his chest and the paper crinkling beneath his hand was audible. "No, I just– I wouldn't want you to change your opinion of me, over some silly drawings."

James reached out and pulled open his coat, grabbing the neatly folded parchment before Edmund could snatch it away. "This isn't a drawing," he said as soon as he unfolded it, before he had a chance to read any of it. But after he read the first line, the corners of his mouth drew down and froze as though they were stone. His eyes narrowed with every line he read.

When he got to the end, he held it out and ripped it very slowly down the middle. "I will not tolerate any attempt on your part to play the hero." He put the halves together, ripped it again, and again, and again. He dropped the pile of torn paper at Edmund's feet. "If you find that you can't be loyal to your commander, then I'm afraid I will have to lock you up with the very criminals you wish to punish. Acts like this don't put you on a level above them, Edmund; they make you one of them." His voice remained terrifyingly calm and quiet, and he could have been advising Edmund on the best ways to observe unusual seabirds, if it weren't for the violent way he tore the last few bits of paper. "You will report belowdecks and take your turn guarding our captives." He turned to walk away, then stopped briefly. "But first, you will clean up this mess you've made."

When Edmund walked through the door that separated the brig from the rest of the deck, the two marines that had been on duty took their leave. The taller of the two handed him his rifle before exiting. "Orders are to shoot them if anyone so much as talks about escaping."

"Oh, er, all right, then." He had to shuffle around to face the door as the man left. "Wait! Er, what if more than one of them escapes–?"

The man shut the door behind him and Edmund thought he heard a bark of laughter.

Edmund stood facing the closed door, clutching the rifle awkwardly to his chest. This was not how things were supposed to go. He was supposed to sail around the Caribbean, killing pirates, accumulating medals and honor, until finally he found Sparrow, at which time there would be an epic battle from which he would emerge bloodied but victorious. That was how things were supposed to happen. Instead–

"Oh!" a voice said from behind him, the single syllable somehow managing to sound immensely pleased. "I remember you."

Edmund spun around, raising the rifle slightly.

Jack grinned. "You won't be shooting me, I know. Why don't you have a seat?" he said, nodding over to the stool in one corner of the small room. Edmund hesitated. "What, you think that by your sitting down, I will somehow escape this finely built prison and strangle you with your own bootlaces?" He grinned wider, but it lost some of its cockiness when he saw the returned look of revulsion. "Well, I won't."

Edmund sat. "I don't want to talk to you."

"I wouldn't have thought Norrington to be the sort of man to trust young officers," Jack said, ignoring him. "Have you noticed? They all seem to be past their prime, so to speak. If I know him at all, I'd say it was because he doesn't trust you young men to do the job right." His eyebrows drew together. "Strange for him to send you down here. You can't be older than twenty."

Edmund's voice was tight. "I'm not working for Norrington." Maybe he was saying too much–

"You're not?"

He paused. "I'm working for a man named Beckett."

Jack had no immediate response for this. "Oh. Well, that's very interesting. What are you doing on Norrington's ship?"

"I won't talk about this anymore, not with you." He settled back against the wall, holding the rifle at ready on his knee.

"Well," Jack said slowly, "that's all right. We have all the time in the world, now don't we? I can wait."

**Author's Note**: I'm back, at long last! School is killing me, but hopefully these updates will continue. I really appreciate your reviews! You guys are the only reason this story is still alive, and I am truly thankful.


	9. Chapter Nine

**Disclaimer**: I do not own anything from _Pirates of the Caribbean_, and I don't claim to.

**Chapter Nine**  
_Port __Antonio, Jamaica_

James invited Edmund out for drinks when they made their first port. "To talk," he said.

He had been sitting at his table in the corner of a local inn for at least ten minutes, sipping slowly at his small glass of brandy, when Edmund finally walked through the door. He caught Edmund's attention with a brief wave of his hand and sat back, feeling a little bit fuzzy from the alcohol and a bit peevish from having to wait.

"I'm sorry to keep you waiting, sir," Edmund said before sitting down as far away as possible from James. His voice was tight and formal, and already James noticed that he was treating this intended casual talk as some sort of chore that James had maliciously assigned him to make his life miserable.

There was something to be said about age and maturity, James decided.

"You don't have to take that tone with me," he said, focusing on the drink in his glass rather than Edmund's face.

There was also something to be said about affection and being raised thinking that emotions made a man weak.

"Sorry, sir." Edmund looked away, toward the door and toward freedom.

James pushed the glass away, sighing; it wouldn't do him any good to try holding this conversation while drunk. It would probably only worsen matters, if that were possible. And he needed to keep Edmund on his side, desperately.

"Edmund, listen." He didn't turn toward James. "Are you listening to me?" He couldn't help getting agitated, not with a lowly lieutenant defying him, and his own pseudo-nephew at that.

"No," he snapped, but he turned his head so he could see him.

_Now what?_ He had the boy's attention, but where to go after that? This was something that Navy officers were never taught – how to resolve conflicts in a healthy way that didn't involve duels or fistfights or verbal confrontations.

"I take it you're angry at me."

"If that's why you called me here, sir, I would like for you to excuse me. Yes, yes, I am angry. You have your answer; may I go?"

"No," James said calmly. "You have to tell me why first."  
Edmund shifted impatiently in his chair, his body clearly finished with this conversation, even when his manners were the only thing that kept him there. "Tell you why? I'm not a child anymore, sir."

"Children wouldn't be able to find the words to express their anger; adults – real adults – should be able to do it clearly and concisely."

He looked for a moment like he would refuse to play James' game, but suddenly he said, "I don't understand how you can keep those criminals down there. They're escaping justice, thanks to you!"

"Just because I decided not to turn them in yet doesn't mean that I won't when the time is right–"

"All right, all right, so what if you do intend to turn them in eventually? How do you define the 'right time'? How do you know that you won't just keep changing the definition, until either they escape or you let them go free?"

"Is this about Sparrow?"

Edmund crossed his arms and settled back in his chair.

Norrington clasped his hands for a moment and rested his forehead against them. He sat back up and looked Edmund in the eyes, saying, "You're right. You're completely right, Edmund. I should turn them in; it's an obligation, it's my duty to do so, as Admiral. And I fully and absolutely intend to. But – and perhaps you are too young yet to understand this – but there are some cases where what I am doing is completely acceptable, perhaps even advisable."

Edmund snorted. "The law is the law, no matter who you are."

"I agree with you," Norrington said slowly, "but try considering this from all sides, Edmund."

"I am–"

Norrington spoke over him. "You're not." He reached for his glass again, just for something to do with his hands. "I shouldn't be telling you this; you have no right to know this, especially given how much of an insolent little– pain you have been and are being."

James stopped for a moment, wondering if it were really the wisest idea to be telling such a rebellious boy about his true intentions, when the only other person that knew was Sparrow.

"Sparrow has certain valuable information that I can only get from the likes of him. He knows where some of the pirates we are hunting are located, where they harbor, where they attack. He knows the pirate psyche better than all of us, since he is one. He is a known quantity; I know what to expect from him.

"Most importantly, though, is his usefulness when dealing with other pirates. Do you think they would talk to me?" He laughed, sharp and harsh.

"I don't see why you need to talk to pirates."

"You think we should just kill them?" James shook his head. "No, don't you realize? For every one we kill, hundreds appear in his place – they are like the hydra. What use is there in that? No, we have to attack them from within, destroy them from within."

"And to do that, you're trusting the word of one of them, a criminal, a pirate?"

"Sparrow has a lot at stake."

Edmund narrowed his eyes. "No matter what he may or may not have at stake, it doesn't change the fact that he's one of them. He just looks for the best opportunity to use whatever advantage he has to get ahead."

"Then we won't give him that opportunity."

Edmund subsided. For something to do, he signaled to a barmaid and motioned her over. "Some rum, please–"

"He won't have anything of the sort. Bring him some water."

Edmund turned to Norrington eyes blazing, shoulders held stiffly. "You're _not_ my father; I don't see where you get the nerve–"

"Ingram wouldn't have wanted to see you drinking."

Edmund had no reply for that. He rested his head on a balled fist and stared at the wood grain of the table.

"I know why you think you want to turn Sparrow in, Edmund. You think that if you turn him in, he will be hanged and you will be released from your promise to Beckett, you won't have to kill anyone–"

Edmund slammed his fist on the table, looking furious, but Norrington held up a hand.

"You don't really want to kill him. You're still young, so young; too young to be putting such heavy responsibilities on your own shoulders. You have the rest of your life to take revenge on the pirates – killing one of them won't change anything, and then where does the killing end?"

Edmund's head hung weakly. He reached inside his coat and drew out a finely crafted ring attached to a battered piece of twine. He turned it around and around in his hands, looking over every inch of it, letting the candlelight glint off it, warming it in his palms.

"It was my mother's," he said finally. His water arrived and he remained silent until the girl had walked away. "Is it strange, James, that I don't have any memory of her? I was so young, but shouldn't I remember something of her? I have never seen her face; Ingram told me that she was pretty, but what else is there to say about a dead woman? And then they took Ingram from me, too."

Norrington sighed, wishing it weren't so awkward and unseemly for him to give Edmund a hug or– or something. He leaned forward a bit so he could see Edmund's face. "You'd be hard-pressed to find someone who hasn't been affected by pirates. I have known many men that have done great good, fighting these devils. But–" He gripped Edmund's arm, and the boy looked up, surprised. "–this isn't the right reason to fight them, Edmund."

Edmund pulled away slightly, and Norrington let go of his arm. "If this isn't a good reason, if my mother's death isn't worth–"

"That's not what I mean," Norrington said quickly. "If you truly do intend to avenge your mother's death, then do so on your own terms, without working toward another man's goal, without accepting money for it."

Edmund looked away. "Beckett said he understood–"

"He understands nothing about justice," Norrington said fiercely. "He only understands money."

"He told me that he had been wronged by pirates too. He told me that he doesn't care about that sort of thing, about money."

And Norrington saw the complete innocence in Edmund, the level of which he hadn't before comprehended. He shook his head. "No, Edmund. The only reason he wants you to kill Jack is because he disobeyed him once, cost him a good deal of money and business. And he's wasted a lot, trying to catch him. He can't turn back now; he has to complete what he set out to do, at whatever cost."

Edmund looked down at his hands, fit the ring on his pinkie, tried it on his other fingers, but it never went past the first joint. He left it on, admired the way it fit snugly on his little finger. "I can't stop now, James, whatever you say. I have faith in myself that I can stop them. Anyway, I'm in too deep now. Maybe I'm like Beckett in that respect." He stood, his chair scraping noisily against the floor, bowed politely to James, and walked out the door into the night.

"Sir, it's time."

James rolled over in bed, and found himself still fully dressed, sleeping on top of his sheets. His neck felt stiff and his mouth tasted awful; his feet were cold. "Time? Time for what?"

"They pirates will be attacking tonight, sir. Don't you remember? It's time to get into position."

James sat up quickly, too quickly, and his head tilted and spun for a few seconds before righting itself. His thoughts went first to Sparrow and his crew in the brig below, and he imagined them with smuggled guns and swords, leading an attack from within the bars–

But then he remembered his orders, why he was there: to stop a rumored pirate attack on Port Antonio. "Right. Well, why are you standing there? Ready the ship, wake the men, weigh anchor, and all the rest."

To allow himself some time to wake up, he sat down at his desk and read over his orders again, and the papers which detailed what information they had gathered about the impending attack. A traitor among the pirates' ranks had told them that the attack would take place at some point after dawn, that they would approach in two small ships, disguised as merchants (further proof in James' mind that pirates weren't very intelligent: merchant ships were never small). Once they had docked, they would lead the attack from there, staying as silent as possible so as not to alert the guards to their presence. They would continue all the way to the mayor's mansion, where they would steal the loot and then race back to the ships.

If they could stop the pirates before they even entered the bay, that would be the best case scenario.

James heard the sounds of men readying the ship for departure. He stood and straightened his uniform as best he could, adjusting his sleeves, straightening his collar, repositioning his hat.

The deck was surging with activity, but the men were quieter than they usually were, either out of exhaustion, annoyance, or anticipation. From what he heard the men whispering about, James guessed it was the latter.

He found Edmund standing near the wheel, watching men scurrying above, unfurling the sails. He placed a hand on Edmund's shoulder and he jumped. "Can I trust you, Edmund?" he asked, keeping his voice low. "Will Jack be alive in the morning?"

Edmund looked at his feet. "I wouldn't shoot a completely defenseless man, sir."

"That is good, because I would hate to have to kill you."

**Author's Note**: Mostly verbal conflicts in this chapter, which are easier or harder to write, depending on how you look at it. Proof that you can learn things from fanfiction: Governor Swann, holding his position, was governor of all Jamaica, not just Port Royal. Seemingly an obvious assumption, but for some reason it just didn't click in my mind until I researched the governors of Jamaica. Moral of the story: I'm not sure if mayor is the right term for the ruler of Port Antonio, haha.


	10. Chapter Ten

**Disclaimer**: I do not own anything from _Pirates of the Caribbean_, and I don't claim to.

**Chapter Ten**  
_The _HMS_Albatross, anchored just outside of Port Antonio, Jamaica, Caribbean Sea_

The HMS _Albatross_ tugged impatiently at her anchor chains. James stood at the aft of the ship, with his hands clasped behind his back. In the distance, the winking lights of Port Antonio flickered, very slowly, as the few people that woke up before dawn pulled themselves out of bed, the place where any sane person would be at such an hour.

But there was to be no sleep for the crew of the _Albatross_, not that night.

One of the senior officers approached James, waiting quietly by his side until James acknowledged him with a nod. "What are the orders, sir?"

James looked back out to sea. "Set out lanterns hanging from the yardarms and off the sides of the ship. We want it to be obvious where we are." He looked to his left. Dawn would be breaking soon; he could see the first graying of the horizon before the sun peeked over the flat line. "Always have at least five men watching for the ships' approach, change them every half hour or so, so they don't get antsy and stop watching."

"What should I tell them that we are looking for, sir?"

"Pirates."

James strode leisurely across the length of his deck, mounting the stairs to the quarterdeck. The men stationed there quickly saluted him and went back to surveying the ocean with renewed vigor and interest. He decided that he might as well get some work done while he still had a chance, but when he got to his cabin, he found himself heading straight for his bed. He allowed himself to sit on the side, but not to sleep – he wouldn't be caught unawares.

He didn't have very long to sit.

Someone rapped urgently at his cabin door window, and burst in, uninvited. "Sir, we see a ship. She's approaching – fast."

He was at the man's side in a heartbeat, and then they were both jogging up the stairs to the quarterdeck.

"She just appeared from around the corner," the man was saying, "from behind that cliff over there."

"Must be hugging close to land, looking for victims," James said, partly to himself. "Probably doesn't have a good navigator, if she's ready to risk being caught by staying so close to shore. Probably not a very smart captain if he hasn't got a good navigator."

He didn't have long to decide what to do.

"Go rouse the officers," he told the man that had alerted him. "Tell them that the ship has been spotted, and to get their men to the cannons as quickly as possible." The man raced down belowdecks.

The other ship still hadn't appeared; more than likely they had backed out at the last minute, or maybe they had been captured. In any case, he was glad they weren't there; that meant one less crew he had to worry about and a better advantage for his own.

He took out his spyglass to determine the manner of pirate they were dealing with, but the shapes were still too blurry and indistinct to tell. They didn't look to be anything too out of the ordinary, James thought.

He looked over the railing to the waist of the ship below. Spotting Edmund, he called out to him. If James hadn't made eye contact, he surely would have pretended he hadn't heard him. But James didn't wait for him to reach the top of the stairs. "Edmund, get some men to raise the flag of the East India Trading Company."

"Sir?"

"You know that things are in a sad state when the flag of a company that sells and transports goods is more feared than that of the Royal Navy's." He nodded towards the ladder to the deck below. "Go on, trust me."

The flag went up just as the ship approached close enough to make out the symbol.

But they didn't stop, they didn't turn around. They continued sailing straight for the HMS _Albatross_. James couldn't understand it; were they planning on a fight?

The pirate ship slid neatly in next to them, anchoring when they were a shout's distance away. "Lord Beckett!" someone called from the other ship.

Silence. James couldn't seem to make any sense of this shout in his mind, until he looked up to the flag that he was flying, remembered he said that it should be the one they fly, but why would the pirates assume–?

"Hey! Beckett!" The voice had grown angrier.

James stepped forward. "I'm afraid that the Lord Beckett isn't on this ship."

"Who are you?" the man snapped. Some of his men raised their rifles and pistols at this new threat.

"I–" James licked his lips. "I am captain of his lordship's flag ship."

The man was suspicious. "Beckett said he'd be here."

"Well, something very important came up, I'm afraid. He sent me in his place. To talk to you," he said, venturing a guess. He doubted that the pirates would have agreed to meet Beckett if he had vowed to kill them.

"I don't know if we want to talk to you."

"If you don't, I'll have to bring that news back to Beckett, and I think he would be none too pleased."

A silence on the pirates' side now. Finally the man said, "We will talk to you."

"Send some of your men over to this side," James said.

The man stood up indignantly. "Beckett usually–"

"I don't care what Beckett usually does. This is my ship, and he is not here to order me how to run it, so I will run it with my own discretion. And my discretion tells me that it is very unwise to go without protection onto a pirate's vessel. You will come here or else we will not talk. And my men are ready not to talk."

He nodded down at one of his officers on the deck below, who then passed on the order to the men sitting ready at their cannons. He saw the gun doors open slowly, but he couldn't see the mouths of the cannons.

"Fine," the man said venomously.

A plank was set across the two railings, and three men, including the speaker, crossed it easily. On the _Albatross_, they landed before James and glared at him with hostility.

"Come with me into my cabin," James said.

The men crossed their arms, and the speaker said, "No, we've made one concession at your request, now you must make one at ours. We talk out here on the deck, where our crew can see that we're safe and being treated with respect.

James nodded in consent. "What is it that you would speak to Lord Beckett about?"

"He's late," one of the other men snapped.

"I told you, he couldn't come–"

"Late in his payments," the other clarified.

"Tell Beckett," said the speaker, "that we don't appreciate being lied to, and that we would like our money now, please, otherwise he will just have to do the job himself, without our help. And we will have to take some compensation of our own, besides."

"Money– What is Beckett paying you for?" James wasn't sure that he wanted them to answer. He half-hoped that they would keep on being stubborn and deny, deny, deny.

The speaker was becoming agitated, nervous. "Just give us the money."

"You aren't getting any money, not today."

The speaker took a menacing step toward James. "What was that?"

"I said that I refuse to pay you, not when you take innocent lives without a second thought." James heart was beating quickly. He hadn't checked these men for weapons – pistols, daggers, rifles – and he was greatly regretting it. He certainly didn't have a pistol on him.

The speaker reached slowly into his jacket–

–when Edmund came barreling from the side, tackling the man. They wrestled, at which time the man pulled out the dagger that he had been reaching for. The other two men were quickly detained and the threat of a thick wall of men with their rifles at the ready was enough to forestall any attempts of retaliation from the opposing side.

No one knew how to rush into the fight on the ground without meaning death for Edmund or a severe injury to their own persons. James saw his opportunity and took it: Edmund held the dagger as high up as he could, gripping tightly on the man's wrist, and James aimed a sharp kick at the man's hand. The dagger went flying, and one of James' men snatched it up.

The man Edmund had pinned went limp, stopped struggling. He had a cut on his cheek from a close brush with his own dagger, but he was by no means repentant. "Call your dog off," he hissed at James.

Edmund gave him a sharp blow to the side of the head and would have continued if it weren't for James' quiet command.

"That's enough, Edmund." He tried to keep his voice firm but also thankful. Turning his attention back to the pirate, he said, "And now that you've had your little bid for power, do you think that you will be able to comply with what I ask of you?"

"I don't want to talk to you anymore." He was sullen, and his prone position was wearing on him.

"Oh, but you will talk." He turned to one of the soldiers standing behind him. "My pistol, please." The adrenaline, the outrage that this man thought he could take his life– James was feeling more than a little on edge.

And in the man's eyes, he thought he could see the frustration consuming him – had the pirate acted just a tiny bit faster, James would have been the one bowed under his mercy.

His cold pistol in hand, loaded, he slowly walked closer to him. "Tell me what Beckett is paying you for."

But the pirate was evidently determined to keep to his promise. He kept his mouth tightly shut, staring hard up at James, daring him.

There was a loud rushing sound in his ears that made it hard to focus. "I don't have time for this." He stepped closer to him and aimed his pistol so that the bullet would just bite into the flesh, embed into the wood below – if the man were lucky and the bullet fired straight.

The report was deafening, so close and in such close silence. Edmund had leapt off the man when he saw what James was about to do, retreating a few feet and watching James with fear in his eyes. No matter; the pirate wasn't going anywhere. His back arched involuntarily and his mouth opened first in silence scream then slowly, a wail grew in volume until he was crying out for God's mercy, James' mercy.

The bullet had lodged itself in his shoulder.

James felt numb. He looked down at him and said, "Well, will you tell me now?"

All that for nothing. The man was too busy wallowing in pain to contemplate what exactly his rapport with Cutler Beckett was.

James turned to one of the officers standing by. "Take the crew prisoner; make sure to take all their arms – _all_ of them." He started off towards the ladder below. Before his head disappeared beneath the deck, he said, "And make sure he doesn't die – I'll need him yet."

The two sailors keeping guard of the brig stood up as soon as James walked through the door, still bleary eyed and clumsy from sleep. But James walked past them, his thoughts and gaze focused on one thing, and one thing alone.

"Sparrow." He stood a foot away from the bars, the faces of the surprised pirates blurring into the background in his search for one man.

Jack struggled between them and gripped the bars when he saw James. "Ho" was all he said, all he seemed to be able to say. His expression finished the sentence for him, said what he couldn't say: _what are you doing down here, Norrington?_

"All right, Sparrow, out."

Jack laughed aloud, jostling his crew in his glee, but the amusement quickly faded when he saw that James looked so serious and pale. "What?"

"Out. You're coming up with me."

Jack's hands fell from the bars. "What, are you going to make me walk the plank? Have you found a satisfactory school of sharks?"

James took the keys from one of the surprised guards and unlocked the door. "No quick movements," he said, and reached in to pull Jack from amidst the crowd of equally surprised pirates. As much as he wanted to, as much as sense begged him to, he couldn't put the irons on him, not if he planned to use Jack the way he planned to.

"What– what exactly are you going to do to me, Norrington?" Jack stumbled up the steps of the ladder without both hands out to catch himself and hold on. He was silent when he saw the crowd on deck; James saw his gaze fixed longest on Edmund – the only one that had left an impression on him – who was still sitting next to the wailing man. "What is this, some sort of execution squad?" Jack said, nervously focusing on the lines of marines with loaded bayonets.

"Take them to my cabin," James said, indicating the three men that had originally been over to talk. Cries from the injured man were beginning to give James a headache. Several of his men helped to lead the men who could walk through the swinging doors; Edmund helped carry the wailing man.

James pulled Jack up short before he could follow them. "You are going to cooperate," James said in a low voice.

Jack started his usual vow of innocence. "Now, now, why would I–"

"Do you remember what you promised to me when I let you live? That you would help me in my mission? Well, now you're going to have a chance to prove your honesty."

"Now?"

James started pushing him towards the door, one hand tightly gripping his upper arm. "They won't tell me why Beckett has been paying them; find out from them. Tell them whatever is necessary to tell them to get them to talk."

Any worries or protests from Jack were cut off by the banging of the swinging door behind them. He felt Jack stiffen and his steps slow when all eyes present turned to him. But if there was one thing that James could say about Jack Sparrow, it would be that he was adaptable.

He gave James a glare over his shoulder. "Do you mind, sir? There's no need to keep up this façade." He winked at him.

James saw the shocked look in the eyes of his officers, the suspicious on the pirates' faces, but he nodded and even managed a weak smile. He let go of his arm. "Yes, of course." _What the hell is he doing?_

Edmund sent James a fearful, questioning glance; James shook his head.

Jack managed to walk in straight line with his shoulders back, until he was standing in front of the detained prisoners. He knelt down in front of where they were seated on the floor, in the middle of a ring of soldiers. He waved his hand dismissively at them. "Why are you all still standing around like that? Go out and check on the prisoners on deck. We can handle these few in here."

James confirmed Jack's order with a short jerk of his head. Only Edmund stayed, obviously considering himself entitled to know what it was that his employer was doing.

"Now, what is this about Beckett paying you?" Jack said as soon as the room was quiet.

The injured pirate spat at him. "What makes you think that we would tell you?" However, there was less venom in his voice, dampened by the confusion of seeing Jack's appearance.

There wasn't even a pause before Jack replied, so very naturally, as if it were the obvious truth. "We're undercover," he said conspiratorially. "This whole ship. We're really pirates, but you know, this is really one of the better ways to go about getting treasure from merchant ships, if they think we're the East India Company. They willingly give their goods. Less blood, that way." When they didn't look completely convinced, Jack added, "I'm the captain. You might know me: Captain Jack Sparrow?"

"Sparrow?" And there was recognition in their voices.

James never failed to be shocked by just how much a name could change everything. Especially such a sullied name.

Everyone but the injured man – who was still gripping tightly onto the bleeding gash on his shoulder – smiled. They seemed to revel in their good fortune; pirates being caught by pirates, what good fun! One looked over at James and said, "How did you get such stiff-looking men?"

But Jack waved their question off – after a sly glance back to the two men standing uncomfortably by the door. "This might concern us, too. I've spoken to Beckett, but he never offered me any money. What sort of deal did he let you in on?"

"You've spoken to him, but he never told you what he wanted you to do?" The men were much more comfortable after learning that they were in good company. "He paid us to attack this port."

**Author's Note**: Oh my! James can be so cruel. And just what is going on here between Beckett and the pirates?  
As requested (although this chapter was already written at the time of the request, haha), more Jack! And you can pretty much expect there to be more of him from here on out, now that James has let him out of the brig and into his confidence. Oh man, this story is so much fun to write.  
Keep reading and, of course, reviewing! Please?


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Disclaimer**: I do not own anything from _Pirates of the Caribbean_, and I don't claim to.

**Chapter Eleven**  
_The _HMS_ Albatross, anchored just outside of Port Antonio, Jamaica, Caribbean Sea_

Beckett. Beckett, paying pirates to do just what he had sent James out to stop? There was someone lying, and James hated not knowing who it was. For the time being, he would assume it was these men.

He expressed his disbelief with proper disdain. "Beckett wouldn't go to pirates for help."

The pirates glared at him, annoyed. "Well, he did."

James shook his head. "No, he couldn't. It doesn't make any sense. He sent me here to protect this port from people like _you_. And since _I_ have written proof of these orders, signed by his own hand–"

One of the pirates caught his blunder before he'd even realized he made one. "Wait," he said, interrupting James. "What do you mean he sent _you_?" The answer was fairly obvious, and however much grog they might have drunk before the battle, they weren't stupid. The three of them recoiled away, and the pirate continued, "Fucking bastards. You're all in on this, aren't you? All Navy men? Undercover as pirates, my arse. Fucking trying to gain our trust by _lying_ to us–"

"That will do," James said curtly. Edmund readied his rifle to punctuate his order. "You and the rest of your crew are now under arrest by the Royal Navy for acts of treason against the English Crown–"

In a last show of defiance, the men were shouting as loud as they could, protests, oaths, and warnings to their comrades on deck. They were quickly subdued when Edmund, close to their heads and behind them, cocked his pistol.

"You will cooperate," he said, leaning forward and lowering his voice in the fresh silence. "And you will behave nicely, because, you should know, if it were up to me, I would have you all shot on the spot." He stood up to his full height. "Unfortunately, that decision isn't in my hands. We will let Lord Beckett decide what to do with you."

"Thank God!" one of the pirates exclaimed.

He pulled the pistol out of his belt, held it at his side in full view; that quieted them. "If you become difficult, I'll shoot you with a second thought. I doubt Lord Beckett would care very much either way."

James rapped sharply on the glass in the doors behind him, and his men came streaming in at once, rifles at the ready; there was a surprising lack of any struggle as they escorted the men belowdecks. _Fool_s, James thought. _They think that Beckett is on their side._

Jack was bent over double, moving very slowly and close to the ground, trying to escape around James along with the crowd of men streaming out. But before Jack could walk out the doors of the cabin, James grabbed a handful of his coat and long, matted hair, and pulled him upright.

"That goes for you, too, Jack."

Jack smiled at him, a quick darting smile, more of a grimace.

"Do you think they were telling the truth, Uncle?" Edmund was sitting in the corner, on the floor and near a small puddle of blood from the injured pirate's wound. "Is Beckett–?" He looked confused, more like a child than one of Beckett's mercenaries.

"I doubt it," James said, but he frowned. It was completely implausible, the facts didn't match up, but he couldn't help but wonder. "It makes no sense. Even Beckett isn't enough of a fool to–"

"If I may?" Jack said, raising his hand slightly, still hunched awkwardly for James' grip on his coat. "I believe I've known Beckett longer than the both of you, so might I have some input?"

"Your information is outdated, Jack."

He shrugged. "From what I've observed, _James_–" He grinned. "–he's still the same manipulative bastard he was when I knew him. People may change, but they don't change that much, especially when what they're doing gets them a high position of power and lots of monies and women."

James squinted down at Jack. He had to have an angle, probably was going to demand that James ensure his survival after all of this was over; but since he had very little control over that–

He steered Jack over to one of the chairs in front of his desk and forced him down before taking his own seat across from him. Edmund sat warily in a chair very near to Jack's. When Jack didn't immediately start talking, James prompted him: "Do you think Beckett's paying the pirates?"

Jack coughed politely into his hand. "My throat is a little parched." His eyes wandered over to the crystal glasses full of alcohol in one of James' cabinets. "It would be easier for me to say if perhaps I had something to wet it."

James didn't move. "We could get you some seawater, if you'd like."

Jack met his gaze and for a moment there was absolutely no amusement in his eyes, no mockery. He broke the stare first, letting out a quiet scoff of laughter and looking down at his hands. "Let me be frank with you, James: I have spent the past weeks locked up in that goddamn brig of yours with not even enough place to sit down in and the only nourishment I've had has been moldy bread and spoiled water. I want a drink. Savvy?" His eyes were hard, even if his mouth was smiling.

James worked his jaw – something clicked, and he wasn't sure if that was normal, if he jaw always clicked like that, or if he had been grinding his teeth so much in the past weeks that he had somehow managed to damage the bones. Finally, he returned Jack's bitter smile and stood to pour Jack a drink.

Even before he handed Jack a glass full of brandy, Jack said, "It seems like it would be Cutler's style to do something like this, playing both sides against each other for his own amusement." He took a generous gulp of the alcohol and coughed several times, his eyes watering. He looked to be in ecstasy. "Ah, how I've missed that taste."

"Then you think Beckett has been paying pirates?"

Jack easily finished off the rest of the drink and set the glass on the table in front of him. He shook his head, waiting for the burn to reside. "No, you didn't let me finish," he said. "I could see Beckett doing something like that in other matters, but when his business in involved, he has very little sense of humor. Unless he's truly lost it since last I spoke to him – completely possible, as he was already on the way when I worked for him – he wouldn't ever dare wasting money by giving it to pirates who probably wouldn't carry out his orders anyways."

Edmund leaned forward. "Then why were they saying that Beckett was paying them? Wouldn't it have done them better to just tell us that they were undercover as well, or that they had a Royal Pardon, or something? Why would they hit upon that defense of all things?"

"Would you have believed them if they'd told you that they were working for the King?" Jack said, raising an eyebrow. Edmund shook his head. "There! You have your answer. What are we doing now? We're considering the plausibility of their words; you're half-convinced that they're telling the truth. It's just far-fetched enough to get us wondering, not ridiculous enough to allow us to see through their lie right away." He sat back and said to himself, "In fact, that would be very handy; I'll have to remember that one."

James hated that he was relying on Jack; he was a pirate himself, probably looking out for his fellow outlaws in ways that James couldn't yet see. But still he said, "They're not working for Beckett?"

Jack shrugged. "You'll have to ask Beckett that. But in my opinion, he is much too– crafty to get himself caught up in such an uncertain and undesireable deal."

Edmund exchanged a glance with James.

"Hey," Jack said suddenly. James snapped his attention over to the pirate again to see him leaning across Edmund to grab something hanging off his throat. He tugged lightly on it when Edmund began to struggle violently to get away. "I'm not going to hurt you, I'm just wondering what this is that you've got here."

"Sparrow," James said sharply.

Jack shot James a glare. "Relax, both of you. I'm just curious."

Edmund stopped struggling, watching Jack with wild eyes. He looked ready to bolt, but how he would escape with Jack holding onto one end of a tightly tied tether around the boy's neck, James didn't know. He brought his pistol out and held it on the desk, pointing at Jack.

But Jack seemingly noticed none of this. He opened his tightly clenched fist and looked curiously at what he found inside. Gradually, a new expression too over his features. "Where did you get this?"

James leaned over and saw what had caught Jack's attention: it was Edmund's ring, the one that had belonged to his mother.

Edmund recoiled slightly, and the ring fell out of Jack's palm and swung lightly into Edmund's chest. "Why?"

"Just curious."

"Why?" James recognized this as the boy's way to evade questions, something he had used on James many times when he was younger, and many more times on Ingram.

Jack let his hand drop. "Nothing," he said, his voice sounding thoughtful. "It just looked familiar, is all. But there are probably lots of rings out there like it."

Edmund's brow creased and he looked ready to launch into a heated defense of his mother's ring, of its charm and beauty and value, but James spoke first. "Edmund, if you'll please escort Sparrow back to the brig. When you've made sure the brig is secure and locked up, come back here – I'd like to speak with you."

Edmund shot him a sullen glare but pushed himself out of the chair and grabbed Sparrow roughly – perhaps more roughly than necessary – by the arm, hauling him to his feet as much as could a wiry young man who hadn't had his growth spurt and probably never would.

Before the stepped out, Jack turned around and bowed low to James, sweeping his hat off in a wide arc. "I bid you adieu, sir."

Edmund tugged sharply on his arm and all but pushed him towards the two swinging doors. Before the closed behind the pair, Jack stopped Edmund and said in a confidential voice, leaning close to the boy. "You didn't happen to chance upon this–" He tugged sharply at the ring strung around Edmund's neck. "–did you? Maybe lying out on the streets somewhere?"

Edmund jerked away from Jack and said curtly, finally at the end of his patience. "It was my mother's."

"And your mother–"

"Is dead."

"Ah."

The doors swung shut with a loud _clack_ and the rest of their conversation – if there was any more – was muffled.

James let his shoulders slump, scooted forward in his chair, and rested his head in his hands. The silence made it easier to think, after all the excitement of just a few minutes ago; unfortunately, it also had the adverse effect of making it easier to remember what he had done. He peeked to the side, leaned back a bit; the bright red pool of blood was still there, congealing.

He clasped his hand tightly over his mouth.

Of course he had shot men before, many more men that he cared to admit, but all those times, it was impersonal, far away, him or the pirates. Mercy – sometimes he gave them mercy, an honorable death during battle instead of at the end of the rope. He had never thought of that as honorable. But then again, he had never shot a defenseless man before.

_He would have killed me, were he in the same position._ He really was being merciful; pirates weren't known for their forgiveness, and neither was the Royal Navy. He shot the man for the good of all, to get information that might save many lives.

But they hadn't got the information because he shot the man – if anything, his rashness had the opposite effect. They had only got what information they needed when he brought Sparrow up and after a fellow pirate coaxed it out of them.

A small part of his mind – perhaps larger than he cared to admit, but very carefully locked away, buried, chained, gagged – said, _Ah, but it felt good, didn't it, holding another's life in your hands?_

"Oh God," James said, suddenly feeling cold and sick. "Oh God, I'm turning into Beckett."

The doors banged open, Edmund halted his building tirade when he saw the expression on James' face. He was more reserved, more careful; he watched with wariness as James tried to compose his face. "You wanted to speak to me?"

"Yes."

James motioned to the chair in front of him. Edmund sat down slowly, as though James were a wild animal that would spring at the slightest provocation.

His eyes went first to the place where the ring hung around his neck. "Is it still there? Sparrow has a nasty habit of filching pretty things." James tried a weak smile; it held.

Edmund clasped his hand around the ring without looking at it, without having to look at it. "What did you want to speak to me about?"

James sighed, leaning back in his chair as if he could make Edmund feel more at ease by appearing to be calm. "We'll be heading back to Beckett now, to hand over the prisoners and hopefully put both them and their lies to rest."

Edmund looked down at his hands. "Oh."

James decided to get right to his point. "The first thing he'll ask you will be if Sparrow's dead."

"Probably."

"What will you tell him?"

Edmund met his eyes, no emotion showing on his face. "What do you want me to say?"

James smiled; it was his turn to look away. "You're an adult. I wouldn't presume to tell you what to say to your employer."

Edmund looked out the warped glass of one of the windows, silent and tense. Finally, he said, "I suppose that I have to tell him the truth."

James closed his eyes and held his breath, facing away.

"I mean, he hired me to capture him, right? And Sparrow's a pirate, like the rest of them. He's probably done worse things than some of them. And if he happens to escape before you think it's _the right time_–" There was venom in his voice now. "–I'll never be able to forgive myself. What if he kills again?"

James' jaw felt almost too tight to move enough to speak. "If you tell Beckett that Jack is hidden on my ship, he'll inevitably find out from either Sparrow or yourself or one of my men or one of the other pirates that we've had him much longer than a few days. And if he finds that out–" He had heard stories about what Beckett did to people who disobeyed him: cutting off joints, fingers, hands, blinding, branding, cutting, whipping, prison, death. Jack himself had defied him once, and only his uncanny luck had allowed him to escape before Beckett finished him. He spoke with emotion in his voice. "If he finds out that I've been lying to him all this time, he'll kill me."

Edmund's face reddened, and he said hotly, lowering his voice as though Beckett really did have spies in the walls. "And if I don't tell him, he'll find out eventually, and then we'll both die."

James spoke in an equally savage murmur. "I have worked too hard for this to let you go and ruin everything. Stop being such a child," he snapped. "Stop only thinking of yourself. This is bigger than just your selfish desire for revenge, Edmund."

"Oh, and you should talk. What have you had to sacrifice?" he spat. "Look at you– you're disobeying your oaths to the King, all to keep your position–"

He slammed his fists down on the table. "Shut it! Do you think that I like who I've become? I don't enjoy this, Edmund; but there's no other way."

Edmund stared back at him, silent and defiant.

James sighed in frustration. "Get out. Give the men orders to sail back to Port Royal."

---

A calm settled over him as the day gradually brightened.

It was then that he resolved that he would have to lock Edmund away as soon as they made port. He couldn't risk anything.

**Author's Note**: Wow, has it really been that long since I last posted? Stay tuned, dear readers, because this is where it begins to get _very, very_ interesting. And thanks a ton for your reviews! Any feedback, constructive criticism, gushing, whatever is greatly appreciated. (:


	12. Chapter Twelve

Disclaimer: I do not own anything from Pirates of the Caribbean, and I don't claim to

**Disclaimer**: I do not own anything from _Pirates of the Caribbean_, and I don't claim to.

**Chapter Twelve**

_The _HMS _Albatross, nearing Port Royal, Caribbean Sea_

Jack was beginning to get used to the close confines of the brig – even closer now that there was a whole other crew of pirates being held belowdecks with them – but he was also beginning to wonder if he would ever get out.

So, when the sailor acting as guard exchanged his rifle with a fresh face, Jack was overjoyed; any change in the environment broke the monotony. He was even more pleased to see that it was the boy – Edmund.

"What ho," Jack said cheerfully as Edmund took up his position, holding the rifle at ready. "Long time no see. What has it been, a few hours now?"

Edmund only glared at him, then looked quickly away.

"Come now, that's no way to treat an old friend."

"You're not my friend," Edmund said, his voice strangely tight.

It was obvious that the boy thought he was hiding his emotions very well, and Jack was loathe to hurt the boy's ego in any way, but curiosity got the better of him. "Something the matter, son?"

Edmund let his jaw go slack and breathed through his mouth for a minute, staring at the floor in front of him. After a moment, he looked up and stared Jack right in the eyes. "You'll be dead within the next few days."

Jack raised his eyebrows, and behind him he felt the bodies of a few of his conscious crewmembers shift. "Something you'd like to tell me about? A terminal illness I'm at the moment unaare of perhaps?"

"I told you that a man named Beckett hired me."

"Yes, yes," Jack said impatiently. He felt oddly detached about the whole affair; he couldn't count how many times he'd received death threats. "Cutler Beckett, yes, I know."

Something changed in the boy's eyes, and he had to look away again. "He hired me to find you, to kill you."

Jack shrugged. "I suspected as much from the beginning." To Edmund's surprised expression, he added, "Cutler and I have something of a history."

"A history?"

Jack ignored Edmund's timid question. "But I highly doubt that his orders were to shoot me. Where's the fun in that?" He grinned, but his mouth carried none of the humor in his words. "No, it's much more in Cutler's style to bring a man in for what he likes to call 'questioning,' especially a man like me. What is it exactly that he told you to do?"

Edmund looked uncomfortable now. "He said to bring you back – dead or alive."

Jack snapped his finger. "See? No reason for you to sully your white hands."

The boy looked away from Jack's kind smile, crossing his arms awkwardly. A silence fell over them, punctuated by creaking wood and snoring men. Jack eventually turned away for a time, dozed with his head against the cold bars, until a sharp roll of the ship jolted him awake.

He looked back over his shoulder to where Edmund stood, looking more alert and hands held tighter on his rifle than before; he had braced himself against the wall and was waiting for the ship to right itself.

Jack's eyes eventually wandered back to the small lump beneath the boy's thin shirt, where he knew that ring rested on a worn leather string. It was hard to take his gaze away; he squinted his eyes, searching his memory. He knew he had seen that very ring before once, he recognized it well. But _where_? There were so many women in his past, so many rings given away as favors. But so many rings lost, as well. And who knew what the women did with his rings – probably sold them, for food money.

Edmund noticed him staring and was evidently alarmed at Jack's expression, because his voice was slightly higher than was natural, far more aggressive. "What are you staring at?"

Jack smiled. "You said it was your mother's?"

"Oh. Yes."

"What did she look like?" It was a long shot, but–

Edmund shrugged. "I don't know. She died before I could remember."

"You don't have any drawings of her–?"

"No."

"That's too bad. She must have been a beautiful woman, to have such a handsome lad as yourself." If there was one thing Jack had learned in all his years as an outlaw, it was that flattery never hurt anyone.

"I wouldn't know." The tone of his voice signaled that, to him, the discussion was closed.

But Jack wasn't willing to let the conversation die; the silence was beginning to get to him. "So how are you planning to tell Beckett that you have me? Through a letter? In person? In a confidential whisper? In a song? Perhaps a shout and a cheer, followed by three loud and drawn out huzzahs?"

"I don't know," Edmund snapped. And if Jack had never before seen what the face of a young man struggling with a difficult moral decision looked like, he was certain that he was seeing one now.

Edmund had screwed his face up so that there were long lines on his forehead, deep creases between his brow, and fleshy folds around his down-turned mouth; he couldn't look at Jack, couldn't look anywhere around him and instead kept his eyes focused on the floor with such intensity that Jack was surprised either his eyes didn't pop out of his head or the wood didn't catch fire; he couldn't stop shifting, changing his position against the wall, changing the angle at which he held his gun, scratching his head, rubbing his ankle.

The door to the rest of the deck opened suddenly and the same guard that had practically just left appeared, looking rather sour.

Edmund jumped away from the wall. "Er?"

"Norrington wants to see you," he said curtly. "We're almost to port. Said he had some orders or something for you."

Before the door shut behind him, Jack said loudly, "Say hello to dear old Cutler for me, preferably before you hand him my death sentence." He smiled to himself; perhaps that would tip the boy's moral scale one way or the other.

* * *

It was easy enough for James to subdue Edmund, for he was more than a head shorter. He grabbed him from behind as he entered the room, before he'd even realized that James wasn't sitting at his desk, pulled his arms high up behind his back, bending him over and keeping him at his mercy while he locked his hands into irons. With a second set, he chained him securely to the stout leg of his desk.

What would he harder, though, would be trying to explain to Edmund what he was doing. "I hope you realize that this is for your own good, Edmund."

He pulled violently at the irons but only succeeded in cutting shallow gashes into his wrists. He leaned forward a bit. "How is this for my own good?"

"If you were to tell Beckett, as you were planning to, he would have held you responsible, too, since you didn't tell him when you first knew. He doesn't give out pardons, Edmund, not without conditions." He frowned. "I just want to keep you safe."

"I hate you."

"Ingram wouldn't want you to do this, needlessly give up your own life for the capture of one man."

But the one name that seemed to always have a calming effect on the boy this time had the opposite. "How dare you speak his name!" Edmund hissed, pulling on the chains to get closer to James. "If Ingram were alive, he would agree with me; it's my duty, and I intend to fulfill it, no matter the cost. I'd rather die innocent than be condemned to an eternity of torture in Hell."

"You don't know much about Ingram, do you, Edmund?" His voice was quiet, Edmund had to be still to hear him. "You have no real measure of the man. He was far nobler than either you or I, but he never would have given up any man, knowing that he would probably die a gruesome death, no matter his crime."

"Go away," Edmund said, incensed.

"You'll thank me when you realize that you don't have your conscience to contend with."

"I promise you, I will never thank you." Edmund stared up into James' face for a couple seconds, the color high in his cheeks, then snapped his gaze away and rested his forehead against his knees.

If he hadn't been so sure that he was right, James might have pitied Edmund. Even now, he was tempted to do the merciful thing and let the boy go, get him to give his word to stay out of trouble, anything but leave him chained and humiliated.

But he couldn't take that risk, he knew that. If Edmund somehow got free and got in touch with Beckett, people would die, Edmund probably being the first of them. He was doing this for Edmund, for his life that he seemed so eager to throw away.

James locked the door, slipping the key into his pocket. He could see land now, Port Royal. In an uncharacteristic lapse in decorum, James leaned down with his elbows on the railing and took off his hat. The afternoon Caribbean sun was hot, made him sweat and drained the anger out of him, putting in its place a sort of hazy discomfort.

He was going to break the law. He was going to deliberately withhold information from the man who employed him. He was going to spare a criminal's life, a man who had raped, pillaged, murdered, a man who had nearly killed him before. He was going to break every oath he'd ever taken, he was going to do exactly what he'd sworn never to do, he was going to do exactly what Ingram would have done, and this wasn't the first time.

It shouldn't be so easy to lie.

* * *

Beckett set his wine glass down, surrounded by plates full of all manner of meat and cooked vegetables and delicacies. He settled back in his chair, one hand resting languidly on the chair's arm, the other resting next to the crystal goblet, his fingers tracing the sharp designs carved into the glass. "Mercer tells me that you were successful in your endeavor."

James, sitting across the table from Beckett, sat up a bit straighter. "We came across a pirate ship, my lord."

"Came across it?"

"We took the crew prisoner."

"Capital." He took another sip of his wine. When James said nothing more, Beckett said, "Is that all?"

"Actually," James began, but the words he had rehearsed on his way up the hill to Beckett's headquarters slipped his mind, and he found himself silent, staring at the grain of the wood on the table, trying to keep his mind off Jack.

The chair creaked as Beckett leaned forward, and James' eyes were drawn up to the impatient face staring back at him. "James," Beckett said, his voice slow and patronizing, "I really wish you wouldn't waste my time. There's obviously something on your mind; say it and get out."

It was the faint sound of complaints from further down the hall that shook James out of his stupor. "The pirates mentioned your name, said they had business to talk with you."

Nothing. No flicker of fear or guilt that James had been expecting. No, Beckett smirked. "_Business?_" he said, in that way of his that never failed to make James feel small and foolish. "Now this I have to hear. You brought some with you, didn't you?" He turned his head to the side and said, "Mercer."

Mercer stepped forward, his hat shading all but his mouth, which was forever set in an unpleasant grimace. "Yes, my lord?"

"Fetch the prisoners. I believe I can hear them now."

The men shuffled in, manacled and in irons, clanking with every step they took.

James watched Beckett carefully. He could have sworn – he _must_ have – that there was a twinge of recognition in Beckett's face when the men stepped through the doors, unconscious and masked again before Beckett himself had realized his tell. He was sitting up straighter in his chair, his hands clenched tighter on the arms of his chair, jaw clenched and eyes dark.

But – James knew the danger of seeing only what he expected to see, not the truth, not reality.

When the pirates saw Beckett, their mutinous glares turned to something like hope. "Lord Beckett," their captain said, as soon as he came to a stop before the table, "tell these bastards to unhand us. Tell them what you told us, that we're your men just as they are." They shrugged the guards' hands off their shoulders and stood looking around like they were the ones in the right.

Beckett said in a very cold, dry voice, "Who are you?"

The pirates exchanged glances that were quickly nearing panic. "I don't understand. What are you about?" His voice growing progressively angry, he said, "Money was promised. We had an accord."

Beckett clenched and unclenched his jaw. His voice was cutting, deadly. "I don't make deals with pirates."

One of the pirates let out a deep growl. "You _bastard_–" he shouted, stepping forward.

He didn't even have time to react. A guard lashed out at him, striking him hard in the temple with the butt of his rifle, and the man crumpled to the ground without a sound. None of the others dared move.

Beckett stood up. "Let this man be a lesson to the rest of you." He started walking forward slowly; the man on the ground began to stir. "No one," Beckett said, his voice flat and malicious, "_no one_, ever accuses me of dealing with pirates." And standing above the now partly conscious pirate, he pulled out his pistol and pulled the trigger.

The man collapsed, dead. James had to look away – close range head wounds were gruesome.

He handed his pistol to Mercer for him to reload it. "Now," he said, aiming the gun back at the remaining captives. "Did I ever make a deal with you?"

The pirates had backed up as far as they could go. "N– no, sir."

"Then you were lying?"

The pirates couldn't take their eyes from the pistol, from the split head of their crewmember. "Yes, sir."

"Much better." Beckett lowered his pistol to his side, and the men visibly relaxed. "Take these criminals to the prison. They will be hanged on the morrow."

As the pirates were being directed out of the room, Beckett turned back to James, leaning against the table next to him so that the pistol he still held in his hand was casually pointed at James. "See? This is where your problem lies, James."

"What problem is that, sir?"

"You can't spoil them like you do. They're animals, and they need to be dealt with strongly. If you don't–" He barked out laughter. "If you don't, well then, you'll just end up like him," he said, nodding toward the man on the floor; a pool of blood was expanding, pushing up against James' boots. "And you don't want to end up like him, do you, James?"

**Author's Note**: Wow, I'm always surprised (and shamed) when someone new finds this story after all these months. So, here is a guilt chapter as a thanks for all of you who have (hopefully) stuck with this story. I just finished outlining the remaining chapters – there are about six left, if I can fit all that I need to in them. This is the most exciting part of the story, so stick around! (:

Please review! Let me know what you think.


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